Lean on Me
by SheyRicci
Summary: Bravo goes on a mission; Clay is left home and Brock goes missing.
1. Chapter 1

"We're just going to talk, right?" Janine said calmly, looking at the group of people spread out in her living room, on the patio, doors open, standing in the kitchen against the island. "No one is going to gang up on her. She just pulled into the driveway and she's expecting me and Trent."

"She doesn't see the cars, not our problem." Brock said.

Janine looked at Jason who was sprawled in the lazy-boy. Elbow supported on the arm of the chair, his cheek was slouched against his cupped hand, the other tapped his fingers on his knee that bounced in agitation. He was trying to keep it together but boy-oh-boy, was he ever on edge.

She was glad Ray and Trent had decided to confront Stella as a team, with the women present. In the mood Jason was in, had he met Stella on his own, whatever wall was nearby wouldn't have survived the onslaught of Jason's fists.

She sighed. Trent had brought Clay home two days ago. Janine couldn't believe Stella had thought he was okay to be left home alone while she went to work. The man was groggy and disoriented and though he got up on his own, his balance and judgement was off and whenever he reached over his head, he landed on his ass.

Jason had hit the ceiling. It wasn't just Stella he was mad at – over. Whatever had happened on their last mission had him blowing up at the slightest disagreement. When Trent had called him to tell him he'd brought Clay to their house, he'd come over and while Clay had been asleep on the sofa, Jason had been fine. But, oh, once the kid had woken up and it became evident Clay couldn't tell them where he was or how he'd gotten there, Jason had had a fit.

Stella had sent several texts to Clay's phone, that was in Trent's possession, saying she'd arrived safe, thanked him for asking with sarcastic emoji's and said she would see him the next day around 4. She'd drive back after her last class. She had not asked how he was doing. Neither Trent nor Jason had bothered to respond.

Finally, after none of her texts had been returned, Stella had called Clay's phone and Jason had answered. And well, here they all were - waiting to ambush Stella for leaving Clay home alone and not calling anyone.

Fun times.

Stella saw all the cars, most were parked on the street, but she recognized the black pick-up in the driveway. It was Jason's. She sighed as she got out of the car. So, he must have more to say to her. He'd been short and abrupt when he'd answered Clay's phone. Hadn't let her speak to Clay. Had simply said Clay couldn't come to the phone right now and asked where she was.

That's when she remembered she was supposed to call someone, anyone, if she had to leave Clay alone. Damn. Oh well, not a big deal. Least, she didn't see it as one. She was here to pick Clay up and take him home. She wouldn't have to spend any time here, hopefully wouldn't even have to speak to Jason, would thank Janine for calling her and be on her way with Clay.

She walked up the sidewalk, climbed the three steps to the front door. Before she could ring the bell or knock, the door opened. She expected Janine, but it was….uh…..aah…..had she met this man before?

"Stella." Eric frowned at her. He didn't invite her in or step aside to allow her entry.

"Uh, yes. Um, hi."

"Eric, let her in." someone called from inside the house.

Aah, Eric. Must be Eric Blackburn. Bravo's Lieutenant Commander. Clay talked about him often without revealing really any details about the man.

He didn't move for another few seconds. She waited, but no one came to greet her or make him let her in. He finally turned and walked away, leaving the door open and her standing on the porch. Feeling nervous, she entered the house and closed the door behind her. This was not going to go how she expected.

"Hello Stella." Janine smiled, but it was weak and she didn't welcome her.

"Did I interrupt a party?" Stella glanced around. She knew just about everyone except for three of the women….no, wait, she did know two of them. Or at least, Clay had pointed out who they were when they'd been at the house of the leader from Echo team after his, um, death. "Sorry, I'll just…is Clay ready?"

No one said anything.

Finally Janine stepped forward. "Stella, I know you came here expecting to pick Clay up and take him home, but you can't." She paused with a sigh when someone said, 'not happening' and 'that's not gonna happen' and 'like hell' and put a hand up when Stella opened her mouth to question her. "We aren't having a party. Everyone in this room is connected to Clay and his job on Bravo. I don't want you to feel ganged up on, but we want to talk to you."

Stella frowned. Oh, she wasn't liking this one bit. "About what?" Oh yeah, this was so ganging up on her.

"Not calling someone when you went and left Clay home alone." Sonny said.

"You can't do that." Brock added.

"You don't get to do that." Ray clarified. Every man in the room nodded their agreement.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry." She held her hands out, shrugged with a small smile. To her, it wasn't such a big deal, but it was dawning on her to these people, it was. It was a very big deal. "My department called, asked if I could cover for a professor."

"You tell them no." Jason interrupted. "Or you pick up a phone and you call or text anyone in this room and tell them you have to go and Clay will be alone."

"Someone will either go stay with Clay or pick him up and take him home with them." Ray said. "He wasn't medically cleared to be left alone Stella."

"Why?" She was truly curious. "He was home, wasn't going anywhere."

And here we go!

Jason was pissed. Was he angry? Oh yeah. Furious? Livid? Enraged? Outraged? He was seething and Ray knew how quick Jason could turn violent when in a mood like this. But, despite that, it was best to leave him alone and let him rant….even if he was ranting at a woman. Nothing and no one on this green earth would ever move Jason to strike a woman over a verbal argument.

Had it been a man…well…..

"….a life, a job. I have to go to work….." Stella was saying. Oh good, she was angry too. Tears wouldn't go over well with Jason, not this time.

Lisa, Mandy, Alana, the three women in the world who knew Jason best yet in different ways simply sat and divided Skittles into colors.

Naima, Janine, Eric's wife Betty and Brock's fiancée, Katie sat quietly on the patio with iced tea and cookies.

No one had brought their kids. All were at Alana and Jason's house with Emma babysitting.

"No one gives fuck what _you_ do!" Jason exploded. "You were given a direct order and you disobeyed! No one asked you to give up your life and sit home to wait and take care of him. You were asked to make a god-damn, fucking phone call. If you have to leave him, call someone. It's that simple! A college education didn't make you smart. You're pretty damned stupid."

"That's uncalled for! And I didn't disobey!" Stella shot right back, "Because I don't take orders from you or anyone else!"

A phone hit the wall next to her head with such force, it cracked before it hit the floor.

"Me, Trent, Brock, Sonny, Ray, Eric, Lisa, Janine, Naima, Alana, Lisa. Hell even Mandy or Eric's wife or Brock's fiancée. Every god damn number is in that phone. Naima would pack up two kids to go stay with him. My fifteen year old daughter would take a cab it she had to, but you, hell, you can't even make a fucking phone call."

"I have a career Jason. I'm not going to just sit home and wait for the times he's able to be home." Stella was shouting back. "Yeah, he's home, so what, I still have to go to work!"

"Able? ABLE? Everyone works Stella! No one is telling you not to. All we asked you to do was _not_ leave him alone!"

"Asked? You didn't ask. You ordered me and I don't take orders from your or anyone, not even Clay. My job is important. I teach and guide the youth who will soon lead this country." Stella felt her knees begin to shake. She thought someone would have stepped in to perhaps calm Jason down, his wife maybe, but nope. Apparently, everyone agreed with him. "He was medically cleared to come home, he wasn't required to remain in the hospital, I went to work, I didn't do anything wrong."

Jason spun around, hands in his hair has he hopped. He whirled back on Stella so quickly she didn't even have time to flinch. His open palm slapped the wall so close to her head, her hair blew. Good, Ray thought, he hasn't taken to throwing punches. Yet.

"You aren't the only one with a job Stella! He has a one too. A job. Do you get that? Do you? He protects your everyday way of life. He protects _us_. Did you know that? Do you have any idea what he does? Do you want to hear it? Let me tell you, he kills people. His ass goes high and he shoots people in the head. He blows their god-damn heads off because I want kill shots. And it's his job to do what I want, what I tell him. Men, women, age doesn't matter, if they're a threat, he kills them. He's a sniper. His job is to keep us alive while we complete whatever mission we're on. He has our backs. You like sleeping at night? You like feeling safe? How old were you in 2001? Even a teen-ager yet? Do you remember where you were? Do you have _any_ idea what he does any god-damn given day? What he goes through? How he feels? God damn you! My kids are not going to lose their dad because _ **you**_ had to go teach today's future leaders!"

She stared, blinked, stared. Okay, yeah, those blunt words were a shock.

"So yeah Stella, if I give you an order NOT to leave him alone," the words 'you miserable bitch' didn't leave his tongue, but his men and Eric all knew he bit back the words. "You call someone if you have to go out. It doesn't matter if he's hurt or just emotionally shot to hell. You be there for him. You table your social calendar and you curl up in the chair and you watch him stare blankly at the TV. 'Cause that's your job, it's what you do."

Clay didn't tell her what he did when on a mission. He didn't talk about it, claimed he couldn't. So no, she didn't know. Neither did she know what her leaving Clay home alone had to do with Jason's kids losing their father.

"It's hard." Ray said quietly. "It's a job that is manageable, he can deal, we all can, we all manage, but no matter how good you are, how well you're trained, there's' gonna be that time, that job, that thing, that just tears you up."

"If you can't be here for him, then you gotta let us know, so we can be." Sonny added. "And _we_ will be."

Just what was he insinuating?

"I can order him to remain in the hospital." Eric spoke up. "Hate to do it, no one likes being there, but if we can't trust you, I can't let you be the one to take care of him." He paused. "I won't. Too many lives depend on it."

She frowned. What the hell did that mean?

"Not all pain is visible." Brock said. "He's not always gonna talk to you, it's on you to know when he needs you or needs a night home or needs to be by himself."

Wait, they were talking about Clay coming home with a head injury and she leaving him alone, weren't they?

"You blew my trust." Trent shook his head. "When we tell you not to leave him alone, it's for his own good, and ours. We depend on him so we can all come home safe to our families. I need to know if he's dizzy when he gets up or complains the TV is too loud when it's not. We need to know he has his head with him. When he's high on over-look, I need to know he can see straight. No one is safe if he's in pain or dizzy or sensitive to sound or light or smell. I can't expose myself or Sonny if I can't depend on the kid to blow a hole in the enemy's head."

"You don't just date the Seal." Betty smiled at her. "You date the whole team."

She nodded, thoroughly chastised.

"You just don't get it." Jason said. "This is a team. We," he made a circular motion to include everyone in the house, "Are a team. As long as you're in Clay's life, whether or not you want to be, you're a part of it. Either you take care of him, put him first, make him the priority or I'll make your life miserable."

"Jason." Alana murmured.

"Don't." His hand went up to silence her. "Just don't. There is no defending her. Not in this. She had choices. She knew them. I told her on the phone. Eric told her when we landed. Brock told her when he helped Clay walk in the sun. Sonny told her when he opened the car door. Trent told her when he buckled Clay into his seatbelt. I gave her one job. Don't. Leave. Him. Alone."

Stella chewed her lip, took a deep breath. There it was. Her whole problem.

"I'm not yours to command. You can't give me a job and expect me to blindly obey."

Ohohohohoh, Ray was out of his chair, around the table and over the sofa in a single leap. Sonny met him at Jason's side and together they pushed Jason back from going nose to nose in Stella's face. They weren't scared he would hit her, they both knew he wouldn't, but both feared he'd punch the wall since he couldn't punch her. And Trent's walls were plaster over brick under drywall. Angry as he was, he'd break both the wall and his hand.

She found herself behind Eric. Whether she moved there on her own or he stepped in front of her, she couldn't recall.

"I damn well can. Go ahead Stella. Keep pushing me." Jason dared. "He doesn't get to choose. Do you get that? He will follow orders. I guarantee you, you won't like it when we're home and he has a hangnail, 'cause you aren't going to get to see him."

"You or me? Is that it?" She demanded. "You'll make him choose? That's a threat?"

"Wow." Ray had stayed out of it until now. He liked Stella, saw her side, agreed that Jason and Trent had an overbearing tendency to coddle the kid. They might be rough and abrasive about it, but yeah, they were over-protective. "It's not about Jason Stella. It's about a job he trained for. He went through pain and trauma and humiliation to get this job. You don't put years of training and dedication into something so hard then throw it away because your girlfriend of a couple months butts heads with your boss. Jason would never make Clay choose, but you keep pushing and Clay will."

"You left him, he called Trent." Brock said. "All you had to do was call someone, anyone. You don't want to talk to us, fine, send a text, wait for a reply. Someone would have gotten back to you in less than a minute. No one lives more than 20 minutes away from him. We know people in the building. At most, the text back to you would have said 'on our way' and you could have left."

Stella stared at the floor, felt all eyes in the room on her. Some judged, none were sympathetic, one set – Janine's, said 'I told you so'. She was not going to find anyone in this house to take her side. She still thought she hadn't done anything wrong. Clay was an adult, he wasn't on medication, he wasn't sick, he wasn't hobbled by a broken arm or leg. There was no reason he couldn't be home alone and look after himself.

Unless…..she frowned…unless he was hurt worse then they'd led her to believe.

"He said he was okay. He said he was cleared by your doctor to fly home. You told me he was okay to go home."

"I told you he couldn't go home alone." Jason said through clenched teeth. "I told you not to leave him alone. I _ordered_ you not to leave him alone. I was clear. It was not open to interpretation."

"He wasn't even home a day Stella." Janine was between her and Jason, reached for her hand. Stella blinked at the betrayal. Even Janine was siding against her? "He's male, he's an ass. He won't admit weakness to a female. None of them will. What he says and what he needs are not going to be the same."

"Did you tell him you were leaving when he was awake and coherent?" Betty asked gently. "How long after you left did he call Trent? Do you know? Anything could have happened during that time."

"I thought I did." Stella felt small. "It shouldn't matter. He was…"

"I don't think you did." Betty continued. "Or he would have asked you to call someone or drop him off somewhere."

Alana reached for Jason's hand, when he took it, she tugged him until he followed her from the room. Stella relaxed in relief, God, he made her tense.

Alana almost made it from the room with Jason…..almost.

"Are we clear here?" Eric asked, all authority. His wife patted his arm. "We fly out on the 12th. Trent, take him to see doc on the 11th, anytime is fine, base hospital."

"Um, what? Why?" Stella frowned. "I can take him. Trent doesn't need to double back."

Eric looked at Stella. Man, she just didn't get it.

"To get medical clearance to fly out on our mission. Get the stitches out." Ray explained. "He has to be cleared Stella. We just can't take him, hop on a plane and fly to our next job. Doesn't work that way."

"I'll drive him. No need for Trent to drive over, pick him up and then bring him back. Makes more sense for me to take him."

"You want me to trust you?" Jason surged back in, shaking off Alana's hand. "Trust _you_? Let you take him? You're not getting anywhere near him. What happens the day of his appointment and you have to go teach a class? Do you let him drive himself? Send him in a cab? Not like we can depend on you to call one of us."

"Jason." Ray sighed. He understood his boss's anger. Felt it himself, but none of this was helping Stella understand what she'd done wrong. And why it was wrong.

"Clay will be here Stella." Eric said. "He's staying with Trent until they fly out on the 12th." He paused. "If the doc doesn't clear him to return to duty but says he can fly, we'll take him with us. If the doc says he can't fly," Eric looked at Betty who nodded. "And can't stay home alone, Clay will stay with Betty and continue to report to work at base under the supervision of Adam while we're gone."

"No." Stella replied instantly. "No, he's not staying here and he won't be going home with anyone but me." She argued, then bit her lip. "I mean, why?" She shook her head. "So, he gets the stitches out and the next day, he just, flies off to who knows where?"

"It's not a suggestion." Eric told her rudely. "It's what's going to happen."

"Because. You. Left. Him. Alone." Sonny rolled his eyes. "Trent can drive him to work every day, you go toddle off and teach your kids."

"I won't," she began, then stopped. She did have work, and though she'd try, she couldn't promise her hours would coincide with Clay's. She didn't get it. She really didn't. Clay was expected to report to base every day and go to 'work', whatever that was, when they were home. She had no idea what he did at base every day. He didn't tell her. Shooting practice, working out, running drills, things like that she guessed.

So, if he was okay to go to work, why wasn't it okay for him to be home alone? Would she ever understand? She was beginning to suspect she wasn't supposed to. She was supposed to blindly follow orders and keep her mouth shut. She sighed. She wasn't sure she could do that.

"You disobeyed a direct order, you don't get away with doing that." Jason was tired, tired of arguing, tired of banging his head against a brick wall trying to get through to Stella. "My men get punished for doing that."

"We need to know he's good to go when we take him with us." Trent said. "We can't leave here, bound for bumfuck nowhere with him if we don't know how he is. We depend on him Stella, we rely on him to protect us. I can't have him staggering around because he missed a doctor's appointment and scratched itchy stitches instead of pulling the trigger or didn't take his medication or experienced symptoms he doesn't remember but whoever he's with would notice."

"He's not on any medication."

"Not the point!" Jason yelled. "Trent's not talking just about this time! He means next time, and there will be a next time. IF YOU'RE TOLD NOT TO LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU DON'T LEAVE HIM ALONE ! It's that simple! I can't make that any clearer!"

"You've proven we can't depend on you." Sonny said.

"You can't punish me." Stella backed up. "You can't make….I don't…."

"Oh no, you're right. I can't make you do anything. I can't make you follow or obey orders. But I can make him." Jason gave her a sick smile. "He doesn't get a choice. He comes home hurt, you don't get to take him home."

"You can't do that."

"I can do whatever I want."

Every single person in the room looked at her. They all wore the same expression. And they were all on Jason's side, backed him up completely.

"We all want our men to come home safely." Naima said quietly. "They come home bruised and dirty and sore and in a sling or with a limp, but they come home. Clay helps ensure that they do."

"Because it's his job?" Stella asked sarcastically. "What about him? Do you care about him? Or just what he can do for you?"

"Oh, now that right there, pretty lady, is bullshit." Sonny stood up, shook off Lisa's lame attempt to restrain him by placing a hand on his shoulder. "Them be fighting words and you're looking for an ass kicking." He stalked her, but she held her ground. "Which, were you a man, you'd be getting."

"You can go wake him up, say good-bye." Trent broke in, nudging Sonny aside with a hip bump. "You can call him, but he's staying here until we fly out."

"With or without him." Brock added.

She wondered if Clay would choose to stay if she asked him to leave with her. She wondered if he'd be allowed. Orders came from Jason and Eric and those orders were for Clay to remain here with Trent.

"Don't be asking the boy to leave with you." Sonny warned. "Don't put him in that position. Until you're in mud on your belly, sand in your eyes, wet, sweating, freezing, pissing your pants 'cause you can't move or get up until junior gets high and the people trying to kill you lose their head, you don't get to make him choose."

Stella looked around the room. Lisa's look was not friendly. Mandy's was, well, hostile. Betty and Katie showed patience, but clearly sided with their spouse and fiancée. Naima was hard to read but when she caught Stella's direct gaze, she titled her chin and turned away. Okay, then, so, only Janine was going to talk to her.

"Come." Janine said.

Stella didn't want to pull an attitude with Janine, but it was hard not to. Janine would be the one taking care of Clay for the next week. No, she wouldn't lie next to him in bed or hold him when his head hurt or the stitches pulled, but she would be the one offering comfort and asking what he wanted for dinner, was he warm enough, did he want ice or a heating pad or another blanket. And it irked her. It did. She didn't want to hear it was her own fault. She didn't think it was.

"Or you can just leave." Trent said.

Janine shot him a look. "You guys, enough." She put an arm around Stella's shoulders. Not a hug, but a show of support. "Last I looked, he was asleep. Probably still is, he's used to Jason ranting."

Stella went with her. She did want to see Clay, didn't want to wake him though. She'd like to just sit and wait for him to wake up on his own, ask him to go home with her, but that wasn't an option and she wasn't welcome here.

"You know," Eric handed his wife her purse, it was time for them to go. "The time is going to come when Jason meets Ash Spenser. I want to be there when that happens."

"If you think I'm gonna stop Jason from going after him, think again." Sonny said.

"What he said." Ray nodded.

"I don't see Clay leaving Stella." Betty warned. "He's going to take her side a time or two, you're all going to have to learn to accept her."

"Don't push it." Ray opened the door for his commander and his wife to leave. "We're working on it, but she's gotta meet us half way."

"Keeping her from Clay this week is mean." Betty told them.

"She brought it on herself."

"It's her first time with him coming home hurt."

"No, it's not."

"Betty, not gonna win this one." Eric herded her towards the door.

"Oh, I'm on your side. The boy is in no condition to be doing anything for himself. I'm just saying, she has to learn, and you all need to be patient."

"Buh-bye Mrs. Blackburn." Sonny waggled his fingers.

She gave him a friendly smack and left with Eric. Brock, Katie, Mandy, Lisa and Sonny soon followed. Ray and Naima not long after and Trent started collecting bottles and plates and cups. Janine came to help.

"That didn't go well." She remarked. "Jason was brutal."

"Brutal? Hell Jan, he is the team sniper. We depend on him. If he isn't healthy, if he falls in the shower and cracks his jaw or doesn't eat right, or drink enough – you know how Eric freaks out about dehydration – he's not gonna be the top of his game and we can't go into action knowing that. She has to step up or step out. Taking care of him, takes care of all of us. No different than any one of us."

"She isn't a military wife Trent." Janine said patiently. "And Bravo did plenty of jobs with only Ray as your sniper." She dumped trash, opened the dishwasher door. "And you won't have to worry about him being at the top of his game if he falls in the shower and cracks his jaw. He won't be on the mission with you."

"It's an expression used to make a point." Trent huffed. "And she's a military girlfriend. She can have her career. No one is saying she can't. But she doesn't get to come first. He does. We do. Hell Alana and Jason are separated, likely heading for divorce and where was she today?"

"She learned her lesson. She made a mistake. Next time she has to go out and leave Clay alone overnight, she will call someone."

"Next time will be a long time coming." Trent said. "We bring him home hurt again, she's not getting him. Do you have any idea how long it's going to take for Jason to get over this?"

Janine was quiet, stacking dishes in the dishwasher. A long time. Jason didn't forgive easily, never forgot. Yes, Stella had been stupid. It would take her awhile to come around and see that being a Navy girlfriend, fiancée, wife was not about her and her man, but about her, her man and his team. Her social life, her work commitments, her job would always come in second. She could have both, but she would never come first.

"You can blame Clay for some of this." She pointed out. "He can tell her more about his job than he does. She'd understand more then."

"He will, they get serious."

She whapped him with a dish towel. "I'm beginning to understand your ex-wife better."

"She on her way out?"

"Good God, Trent, give them five minutes."

"Jason is still here."

Janine nodded. "Right. I'll hurry her along."


	2. Chapter 2

Happy 2nd Season!  
One quibble - reunite Jason and Ray!

* * *

Jason slouched in the orange rubber chair, report file of the upcoming mission across his lap. He'd tried for the last hour to read it, but after reading the same paragraph for the fourth time and still not understanding or remembering a word, he'd given up and let his mind wander.

Both the team doc and the Navy doc had cleared Clay to deploy on this mission, had cleared him to return to active duty, but he wasn't on the plane. The team doc had recommended waiting another week and the Navy doc hadn't argued and Jason had agreed. He hadn't been forced to leave Clay behind in Virginia but the kid had returned to duty before based on the doctors giving him medical clearance and it'd come back to bite them in the ass. So, if the doc said in his opinion, it would be better for Clay to stay on base for another week, the kid would stay. This wasn't a critical mission. He'd agreed to have Clay re-evaluated in a week and decide then whether or not to take the kid on their next mission.

"And you're up, why?" Eric sat down next to him. "You could have brought him, you know. He could have stayed in command with me and Davis."

"Don't like the read of the mission."

"It's Syria." Eric agreed. "Never an easy way of it." He let the subject of Clay go when Jason didn't reply.

"Just…..why us? Marine unit already on site, why do they need us?" He pushed the file to the floor. "I don't like it." He laid his head back against the vibrating wall of the plane. It was cold, but he didn't sit up.

Alpha was on board with them, that was some comfort. And Bravo's full support team was flying in on another transport, so there was that, but yeah, no, Jason was uneasy.

"You don't like running on another team's intel, I get it." Eric picked the file up, noted Jason hadn't even flipped to the second page. "We're in and out. The Marine unit is doing the rescue, all Bravo and Alpha have to do is clear the village."

"It's never that easy."

"Get some sleep. You can read in after a nap."

Jason rubbed his eyes, they were dry and scratchy. He'd gotten some sleep, but not enough. His men had no such issues, sleeping the majority of the flight. He let them be, knowing once they were completely read in, sleep would be scarce for them as well.

***000***

Jason hated splitting up. Everything about it rubbed him the wrong way. Bravo was already short-handed. No Clay, no Lisa, she and Mandy had remained at the air field because it simply wasn't safe for women off the base, and Bravo support was still hours out. But there were eleven of them, they needed to split into four teams and clear this allegedly deserted village as soon as possible…even if it left one team without a sniper…he'd take on the role if necessary.

"He okay?" Brock quietly asked Ray.

"Doesn't like running on someone else's intel." Ray answered. "He doesn't have command of the Marines either."

"We won't be on their raid, will we?" Trent asked. "Just clearing the village."

"That's the plan."

"But not our plan." Sonny said.

"Right."

"Alright, listen up." Jason called everyone together. "Four teams. Ray, take Brock, Derek from Alpha, go south. Sonny, take Pat and Barry, go north. Kent will take Matt and Drew and go east. Trent and I will go west with Athan. If it's clear, red x it. Keep communication limited. Meet up in three hours."

Ray nodded. Sure, just like Jason to divide the men into four teams, leaving his own without a sniper. Eh, well, snipers weren't really needed to clear buildings of cowering citizens or the amateur rebel fighter. Fists bumped and the men split.

()

Brock was tired. He'd lost track of time. He was dusty and dirty and thirsty and hot and happy he'd left Cerberus back at the air field with Lisa. The job wasn't dangerous, but it was hot and the sun was brutal and dressed in full combat gear was taxing. His backpack pulled heavily, sweat pooled under it against his back, making him itch. God, he just wanted to sit down, take his helmet off, set his backpack aside and drink some water. Preferably in the shade.

It had to be close to the three hour meet-up time. They all needed a break. Ray was looking at his watch, stepped into the shade of a veranda and reached for water. Brock gratefully followed his lead. He climbed the porch steps, stood next to Ray, shared the canteen.

"No red X." Ray commented. "See one?"

"I'll check the other door." Brock said, handed the canteen back, entered the house and that was the last time Ray saw him.

"Brock?" Ray called a minute or so later. "Hey! Brock! Dude, what we got?" he poked his head through the open door. "Dammit, Brock?! BROCK?! Derek!"

Derek joined him; no, Brock wasn't him; no, he hadn't seen him.

"BRAVO ONE!" Ray tried to keep the panic out of his voice. At first, he'd been amused, then annoyed, thinking Brock was being a dick, playing hide-n-seek, but not now. Brock simply wasn't to be found. Ray knew he wasn't supposed to use comms unless it was an emergency. Well, Bravo Five was gone. Just gone. Disappeared right under his nose without a trace, if that wasn't an emergency, what the hell was? "Brave one, I've lost visual contact with Bravo five." He paused then keyed in. "All contact."

"Come again Bravo two?"

"Boss, he's gone." Ray closed his eyes. Gone on his watch, almost right beside him and he'd heard and seen nothing. Not a god-damn fucking thing.

"Describe gone." Jason bit out. Gone had several different meanings.

"Missing. Not here."

"Where the hell are you?" Jason whistled for Trent, spun around and jogged off without waiting for Athan who quickly fell in behind Trent. "Christ Ray, what happened?" He was soon beside Ray who was kicking through the dust and gravel. "The hell?"

Athan joined Derek who was still punching walls and stomping on the floor, looking for trap doors or entrances to tunnels. Trent called in Sonny, Derek called in Kent.

Twenty more minutes of ten men digging and kicking and knocking on floor and walls and doors and ceilings and roofs had produced nothing and finally, Jason called it in to Eric.

***000***

Brock woke slowly, groggy. Came out of whatever drug induced stupor he'd been in with a headache, dry mouth and confusion, but no pain. He remained still, trying to remember what had happened, figure out where he might be, and how he may have gotten there.

Nothing.

He'd been hot, had wanted a drink, the sun had been bright and brutal, he'd stepped inside a supposedly abandoned house and then...He shifted uneasily. He was lying on stomach, the floor damp and musty beneath his cheek – so dirt. He wanted off it, used his palms to push up…..yeah, he was stiff, but he wasn't tied up or tied down. Huh.

Where was he and how'd he get here?

Pushing up, he balanced on his hands and knees, waited for his eyes to adjust. He finally sat back, ass on his heels and pushed his hands through his hair, patted himself down. He was still dressed in full gear, less the rifle and ammo clips. He felt gritty. So, he'd been inside, out of the sun long enough for the sweat to have dried.

He waited, but could discern nothing. No sounds, no smells. His eyes had had time to adjust but it was too dark to see so he sat and waited. No one entered the room, no one spoke to him through the door. Finally, he got to his feet and began to explore.

No windows, one door that, by the feel of his hands was medieval; solid wood, small barred window over his head, iron hinges. Yeah, he wasn't getting out through that door. There was no furniture. Just a dirt floor and stone walls. He couldn't see the ceiling. Didn't matter. There was no way he was able to reach it anyway. Even standing on tiptoes, arms extended over his head, he couldn't touch it. In one corner of the room, a trap door lifted to reveal a hole. The odor that assaulted his nostrils identified the use of that hold. He quickly dropped the lid back down, said a prayer he wouldn't have to use the 'facilities'.

God, please don't let me be here that long.

Could be camera's up there watching, he guessed, though with the room pitch dark, he didn't know what anyone would be able to see. Speakers maybe, though what anyone thought they'd hear was beyond him. He didn't intend to start talking to the walls.

Next to the door he found a ratty blanket, musty and itchy, but it was a barrier between him and the dirt floor, so he spread it out and laid down. Nothing to do but wait so might as well get some sleep.

()

"Anything?" Eric paced, coffee ignored. Mandy paced in the opposite direction on the other side of the table. Every time they passed one other, they paused, exchanged a look then paced on.

How long and how many times had they paced like this, the guys spread out at the table, in the last however many hours? Every time a patrol or search unit returned with new footage, Bravo gathered to watch where the unit had gone, what they'd seen. Confined to base by authority over Eric, no one had slept or eaten, nibbled on donuts or bagels with coffee. Sat and waited for any word, in and out of command for hours.

Lisa sighed. Their drone coverage had been limited. Most of the camera coverage from Bravo and Alphas mission hadn't been recorded, command had watched it live. The images she was watching now with tech support were courtesy of the Marine's latest patrol. They'd just come in and she'd rounded up the guys to share what she had, which was nothing.

"Nothing." She announced frustrated. They were back to the video of when Brock had gone missing, it played in a constant loop on one of the wall monitors. Kept thinking maybe they'd see the way or the method which Brock had been taken. They didn't. "We've taken these tapes apart frame by frame. Sped up, slowed down, enhanced, and enlarged. You can't see faces. The sun either blocks out the image or casts a glare. I see no vehicles anywhere near the house Ray said he disappeared from. There is no evidence to suggest he was taken."

"Is there any to suggest he simply walked away?" Mandy asked at one point.

"None. We don't have him on tape entering the house, we don't have Ray on the porch. The surrounding area doesn't show any approaching vehicles. Everything around that village is a desert. Even if he did walk away, he doesn't have enough water to…...uh, survive." Lisa stuttered. "Where would he even go?"

"He didn't walk away." Jason snapped back. "Don't say that again."

"Either way, he's gone without a trace." Eric rubbed his jaw. "I don't like it."

"You think I do? I was right there!" Jason flared, fist hitting the table.

"You were right there? Hell Jason, you were on the other side of the village, I was on the fucking front porch. I didn't see or hear a damn thing!" Ray sprouted.

"No one is blaming you." Jason cut him off.

"I'm blaming me!"

Eric reached the end of the room, supported his weight against one palm on the wall, talked on his cell, hung up. No one was going to like what he had to say. They had to know it was coming, would fight against it, and hearing it, even knowing it was going to be said, wouldn't make it any easier to hear.

"Command believes he was taken by rebels." Eric related with a tired sigh. "A search and rescue unit was deployed in an attempt to find him."

"Without us." Sonny tossed paperclip after paperclip into an empty coffee mug. "Lemme guess. We're too emotional. Too close."

"Was?" Trent asked. "You mean, they've been here? We're just finding out now? How long?"

"Who?" Ray asked. "From where? Not Alpha, not us. The Marines have been searching and patrolling since he disappeared, they have squat."

"Command flew in a Marine unit from Quantico."

"Do they know anything?" Lisa asked. "What have they found?"

"Nothing more than we did." Eric sighed. "Than anyone did. And we even took Cerberus out there."

"So, how long when they find nothing, will they decide he went AWOL?" Jason thunked the back of his head against the wall, the chair balanced on its back two legs. "Cause it's coming to that."

"The rebels don't kidnap American soldiers." Mandy mused out loud. "If they capture one, they immediately behead them, record it and leave the body where it was taken."

"No body has been found." Ray held his head. "Not even scuttle on the gossip wire?" He looked at Mandy, waited. "Right?"

She shook her head, eyes on the floor.

"So, we just sit here and wait." Sonny said. "And do nothing."

"Pretty much."

***000***

"You're awake." Someone spoke English with a heavy accent. The voice could be coming from anywhere. "Water. You drink."

Brock didn't move. He lay on the blanket, hadn't heard the door open. Being in total darkness for so long hadn't allowed him to mark the passage of time. They'd taken his watch.

The light that flooded the room blinded him. He resisted the urge to raise a hand and cover his eyes. He was disoriented and unable to see, so escape didn't occur to him. Didn't matter anyway, the open doorway was guarded by two men armed with ak-47's.

So, what? Torture? Ransom? Demands?

"Fuck you." His tongue was thick, his mouth dry. So, he'd been here awhile. How long had been awhile? Hours? Days? He was thirsty, even lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling he couldn't see, he felt dizzy just thinking about moving….so, he'd guess they'd left him here alone, for maybe two days. He bet if he even sat up, he'd be lightheaded, doubted he could stand without staggering.

"You are thirsty. It has been many hours since you've had water." Pause. "Days."

He ignored the tin cup that allegedly held water. He could go more.

"You will obey."

Brock still didn't move.

"Aah, I see my friend." The accented voice chuckled. "You are determined to be stubborn." Brock was nudged in the side with a sandal. "I think perhaps you will soon be persuaded not to be."

Brock was silent, though mentally, he responded with, 'don't fucking count on it'. He tensed, waiting for the kick or to be hauled off the floor.

"You will drink the water." The voice continued. "See, I've learned much about you soldiers of America. You will willingly withstand torture and physical and mental abuse. I would get nowhere gaining your cooperation with that method. Your loyalty to your country is admirable. But you will do what I want."

Fast Fucking Chance. Brock still didn't respond or reply.

"For you see, I have learned while you will subject yourself to such treatment, will sacrifice a civilian if it suits your needs, I know the only thing more important to you than the defense of your country, is the defense of a fellow soldier."

What the…..? He fought and successfully kept the scowl from his face. We don't sacrifice civilians.

"They looked for you for hours, you know. Came back with a dog. They still search." The man chuckled. "Of course, they didn't find a trace of you. They won't. There was no fight, no struggle. You just walked away on your own, now didn't you?"

Brock couldn't help it. He reacted. He tensed, lifted his head, blinked into the light from the door way. What the hell was he going on about?

"Then another team came and began the process all over again." He continued. "Unlike the first team, this unit didn't operate as smoothly. And yet, they search. Go further, fly drones, knock on doors of peasants, demanding answers they are unable to give."

No, they would have been a search and rescue retrieval unit with no emotional ties to him. Once Jason had given up the immediate search and called command to report Brock missing, Bravo would have been pulled from the field. Alpha might be out, but Brock seriously doubted it. The two teams were too close, did too many jobs and missions together.

"Say hello to the reason you will do what I want."

He sat slowly sat up, hands behind him, palms braced flat on the floor. His head did indeed dip and swirl and this time when the tin cup was offered, he accepted it and sipped. He needed to be clear-headed so he could tackle whatever surprise they were about to throw at him.

They'd left him alone for days to disorient him and the first offer of water was cool and clean. That didn't bode well.

A man dressed in camo was dragged in and dropped in a heap by his hip. His vision hadn't yet cleared from the blinding light or dizziness, but even so, he recognized an American military camo when he saw it, blurry and fuzzy or not.

Brock's eyes widened. No. No way. No fucking way. No. NO. Nonononononononono. NO! So, not only had he been captured….. well, not captured really, he'd gone willingly, but whatever….these assholes had gotten another captive. Why now? They could have had Ray or Derek or Sonny.

Shit.

"Now, you drink this water and you continue to do as you're told and this soldier won't suffer further for your disobedience." The man withdrew from the room, "You are an elite Seal. He," he pointed to the man on the floor. "is just a soldier on a search and retrieval unit. He is expendable." The door closed behind him and Brock was left in total darkness once again, only this time, he wasn't alone.

Well great, this was just fucking great. He was going to need some time to think through this latest twist. This was completely unexpected. He no longer had just himself to think about. Now he had an apparently injured soldier to worry about.

And just how the hell did that asshole know so much about units and teams in the American military?

He sat cross-legged next to the unconscious soldier, held his head in his hands, thought again, that he should have reacted differently.

He'd stepped into the house while Ray waited on the porch. He'd gone through every room on the first floor, stepped out the back door and had been met with a cell phone in his face. The woman holding the phone had put a finger to her lips, commanding him to be silent.

He'd nodded his understanding.

She'd then motioned for him to follow her. He hadn't. She'd shown him the phone again. He hesitated, then stepped off the porch, took the phone from her to see better then silently, obediently followed her from the house and the safety of Ray. They'd disappeared into a swirl of sand and dust and he'd woken up here.

He didn't get it. He just didn't get it. Why take him? Why not Ray? Why show him a live video feed of guns trained on Sonny to get him to cooperate? If they wanted to coerce him into doing what they wanted, why not take Ray? If they wanted to kill American Soldiers, they had the opportunity, why not take it? They could have easily killed Sonny, Ray, Derek...

He raised his head, wished he could see in the dark. Didn't matter. Whatever mess he was involved in would soon be made known to him and saying no had just become more difficult.

Pushing to his knees and finding a strong pulse, Brock quickly checked the man over for serious injury. Both arms, both legs, his back, his belly, his shoulders, his chest. The man wore a t-shirt and pants, making it easy to feel through the material. He wasn't Trent, but he could tell if a bone was through the skin and knew a gunshot wound when he felt it or saw it.

"Hey," he bent down, face close enough to whisper in the man's ear. "Can you hear me? Are you awake?" His nose twitched...huh, that...uh, smell. It was faint but familiar.

He got no response and he felt it was too soon to start shaking the man in an attempt to wake him up. Brock had woken with a headache, but it hadn't been the result of a blow. Perhaps this man had been rendered unconscious by an ether soaked cloth as well.

Moving, he sat back and tried to ease off his knees and resume his cross-legged position, but the material on his right leg didn't move with him. Huh, he must have snagged his pant leg on something. Encouraged, he felt the man's pockets. He'd checked for injury, but hadn't searched pockets for a knife or flashlight, a watch, anything he might have over-looked.

Nothing.

He sat on his knees, letting his mind process and catch up. The water was helping to clear his disorientation and dizziness and he sipped more. The tin cup had been left behind but wasn't heavy enough to use as a weapon. His head feeling a little less muddled, he wanted to get up and stretch, walk, think but when he tried to move, his pant leg caught.

Sighing, he reached down, encountered the object near his knee…..fingers. Fingers? No, a fist. A fist with a firm hold on the material of his pants. Brock couldn't help but smile, it reminded him of Clay...…his smile faded. He reached out again, this time, the tangled curls his fingers encountered made his stomach knot. He'd run his hands through that hair not five minutes ago and it hadn't meant anything to him then. But now, he'd smelled that familiar scent...shampoo or cologne or soap, masked by sweat and dirt and faint, but still there.

Why did hair and a scent and a fist remind him of Clay? It shouldn't. It was ridiculous. He tried to reason it out. It wasn't possible, Clay was home. He was in Virginia. He wasn't in Syria and he sure as hell wasn't lying here next to Brock.

Brock swallowed hard. Clay had been cleared to deploy. Jason had played it safe, followed the advice of the team doc and left him behind. Was that a guarantee he would stay there? Would he come over here to help search for Brock? No. Command wouldn't allow it. If Bravo and Alpha were pulled from the search due to emotional involvement, Clay wouldn't have been allowed to come here.

How much time had passed since Brock had been taken? Enough time to scramble a search team from Virginia and have them arrive here and begin their search? Brock didn't know. Clay was an active, elite Tier One operator, sitting home with medical clearance to deploy. Would command really have left him sitting idle?

The top brass would be more concerned about the capture of a Tier One operative and getting him back alive before he could be broken then they would be about which team or unit Clay was assigned to. It might not even occur to them that he would be teammates with the soldier who, to their knowledge, had been taken alive.

 _Come on Brock, think, you ass. There is no way in hell Bravo's kid is in Syria. Even IF he was, the chances of him being the man next to you are…..well, unfathomable. It's dark, you're alone and hungry and thirsty and disoriented. Deliberately left alone without food and water to confuse and disable you. Your mind is playing tricks on you. You're asleep and dreaming. You're thinking crazy ass shit. Shit that ain't possibly possible. Yeah, listen to yourself, you ain't making no sense. There, you see. That proves it. You've lost your ability to speak English using proper grammar._

 _The fact that the man beside you has a mop of hair with curls and a familiar scent and has a tendency to want to hold onto_ ….. _you..._

He choked on bile, pushing his hair off his forehead. No. Just no. It couldn't be. It. Could. Not. Be.

But Bravo's kid was Clay-fucking-Spenser and nothing had been expected or normal since he had joined the team. Shit that couldn't possibly happened, happened when Clay was involved.

His hand shaking, his stomach in knots, Brock reached out to find the dog tags that should be around the man's neck. Soldiers wore two in the field. Clay wore three. Trent's decision, Jason's order. Not all elite teams wore them, pretty much a personal decision. Hell, Brock didn't even have his on. But Clay, well now, Clay would have his on. Didn't matter where he was or who he was with, as long as he was on Bravo, those tags would be around his neck.

Fingers trembling, not able to stop them from doing so despite fisting his hand several times, Brock felt his way in the dark, the man was close to him, against his hip – when the hell had that happened? – and why did it make Brock sweat?

Arm, sleeve, shoulder, neck, shirt…..there was a chain. Brock used two fingers to pull it from beneath the shirt, heard the tell-tale clink of tags. He took a deep breath, let the chain slither through his fingers until the chain ended…one…two…he swallowed, gulped, hiccupped…..three.

He dropped the chain and sat back. How many men in the military wore three dog tags? More than just Clay, probably. How many wore their longer hair then rules regulated? Again, many. How many wanted to be close and hold onto something – someone when injured? Only one that he knew of. And he'd been in the Navy for over 15 years.

The man was groggy, had laid still while Brock had felt and checked for injuries, but had tensed or twitched a time or two, so maybe he was beginning to come around. Clay had just had stitches removed from his thigh and belly. The wounds would be tender and sore to touch. Yes, Brock had brushed his hands over the man's belly before, but it had been over the t-shirt looking for cuts or holes in the material. He'd poked here and there, prodded a time or two, but hadn't gotten personal during the exam.

Wiping his face against his sleeve, he carefully reached with both hands to push the man's t-shirt up and slide a hand beneath. He was cautious, his movements slow. He didn't want to startle the man or give him reason to believe he needed to fight and take a swing at him. His fingers felt for the puckered skin that had not yet had time to fade or heal into a proper scar, felt it right where he knew he would if it were Clay lying next to him - between belly button and belt buckle. He swallowed bile…..still didn't prove anything. But….but if there was a similar wound on the man's right thigh…...

Brock paused, needed a moment.

Any man would react if he were conscious, to hands undoing his belt; would protest when his pants were unzipped; would try and stop the fly from being opened; would at least extend a hand and slap at the invasion but nothing. No attempt was made to stop him and the man was beginning to stir. He felt the grip on his pant leg tighten, pull the material tighter….aah, so he wasn't as unaffected as Brock thought. And he didn't like it when he felt Brock's bare hand against his right thigh, searching towards his knee….four staples, removed and replaced with several stitches…..yeah….right there and still, the man next to him remained calm and still.

"Clay?" He said dully in disbelief. The hair…..the dog tags…..that scent...the wounds with the fresh scars in the exact same place…..the familiarity the man had with him, pressing close, holding tight, letting him do what he wanted...God dammit, he wished he could see…..he just bet there'd be a fading bruise on the man's forehead.

"Mmmm."

"No." Brock felt sick. He withdrew his hand, made a fist, bit on a knuckle. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be. The world wasn't this cruel. Fate didn't happen like this. It just didn't. What the fuck would Clay be doing in Syria? They'd left him home. _Home_. In Virginia. Where he was safe.

Out of everyone in the entire US Military, how the hell had Clay been the one captured? HOW?! Why?

"Hey, you awake?" He waited, no response. He gave the man a nudge, a shove, a shake. Nothing. "Clay?" No. This wasn't possible. It just wasn't possible.

"Mmmm."

Brock felt a nudge against his hip. "Spenser?"

"Mmmm."

The man tried to move, wanted to roll over, managed to lift his head and rest his cheek against Brock's thigh. Clay's signature move of trust.

"R'ck?"

His name, slurred and thick did it. Convinced, but unable to believe it, Brock sat and stared in the dark at the floor, his gut in knots.

"What the hell Spence?" Brock whispered. Wouldn't do to let their captors know they not only knew one another, but were on the same fucking team and closer than anyone would ever suspect. "How can it be you? Why is it always you? What are you doing here? Why aren't you home?"

Dear God, what would their captors do if they found out Clay was simply not a mere soldier from a search and rescue unit, but a soldier as highly skilled and trained as Brock. Maybe even more so. Clay was trained as a sniper. And whoever these men were, they knew enough about American military teams and units to make Brock wary.

An the worst part of it was Bravo would never suspect Clay wasn't in Virginia!

"Spenser?" He gave Clay a slight shake, heard him groan. "Hey, you with me?"

Clay groaned. He heard Brock, he did, and no, he wasn't with him. He didn't want to be. He wanted to stay in oblivion just a bit longer.

Brock felt his first stab of fear. Trouble had a tendency to find Clay. And trouble usually included injury. Until now, Trent had always been there. Brock blew his breath out….wow, yeah, he just realized how much they depended on Trent. They put a lot on him…..eh, he never complained. Still didn't make it right, but….well, Clay had yet to be seriously or severely injured. Mostly, it was just painful, took time to heal, jet lag and exhaustion on top of whatever bump or bruise he'd gotten, but nothing major like surgery or months of rehab.

Clay sprawled between his legs, Brock pulled the blanket over him and laid down on the damp dirt. Nothing to do until Clay woke up.

God, please don't let this be the time the kid is really hurt.


	3. Chapter 3

Clay was cold. He was cold and in the dark and had no idea where he was. The ability to pull himself out of the fog of mental mist was within his reach, but he just didn't want to do it. He wasn't comfortable, yet felt no need to move. The time would soon come when this lull, where he felt safe, would end and he'd be facing pain and the fear of the unknown. Soon, he'd be forced to confront whatever the hell was going on and it would be a situation beyond his control.

What he knew right now was, his arm hurt, his left; from his fingers to his shoulder. Ow.

He'd been home with Stella. He'd gotten the medical clearance to deploy but both Jason and Trent had been hesitant about taking him with them to Syria, and when Eric agreed they didn't need him on the mission, Clay had been left home. He'd been annoyed, didn't like being babied, but had no choice but to obey orders.

Yes, he was under the supervision of Adam at work, but both doctors had said he could remain home alone, so he hadn't had to return to Trent's house or 'report' to Eric's. He would have been okay, reluctant but okay, going back to stay with Janine while Trent was gone, but Eric's wife? Whole new kettle of fish.

Stella wouldn't tell him how he had ended up at Trent's house, why he'd had to stay there for the last week, why he couldn't stay home alone and his teammates hadn't been willing to share either, but dammit, someone soon was going to tell him or else.

Eh, whatever. He felt the floor beneath him move, realized he wasn't alone and it wasn't the floor that was moving. Right, he'd been on a job.

He'd been on base with Adam when the call had come in to Adam to have Clay report to command. Adam had gone with him and they'd been told a solider had been captured alive. A search and rescue team from Quantico was being deployed to assist and Clay would be going with them. He'd been told no further information, not what branch of the military the soldier was from or in what country he'd gone missing. When he'd asked Adam for a better understanding why he'd be sent with the rescue team, Adam had admitted that whoever had been taken most likely was not a 'simple' soldier.

That had hit home.

But what sense that made, Clay still didn't know. All Adam had shared was, the skills and talents and training an elite soldier possessed were highly sought after in some countries. The kidnapping of such a soldier may not have been to gain notoriety in publicizing his death or obtaining information from him.

Well, okay, but if the soldier had been taken in order to utilize his skills, how did the kidnappers intend to force him to cooperate? Clay kinda thought he knew now.

On the flight, the men on the rescue team had no further information. They'd answered his questions best as they could, but the phrase 'Black Ops' pretty much told him they didn't know anything that would satisfy his curiosity. They'd landed and began the search. All Clay knew was they were in the desert somewhere in Asia - the largest, most populated continent. Ha!

They'd been in the recently deserted village where the soldier had gone missing, he'd been sent on his own to check out a seemingly abandoned house, he'd been jumped and well, now he was wherever here was.

Yeah, no. He wasn't going to wake up anytime soon.

()

Brock heard the door open, tensed when light flooded the room but did nothing more than turn his head away and keep his eyes closed. Clay, now lying next to him, didn't move. He was close enough to Brock, that Brock could feel him tense or move if he were with it enough to know men had entered the room, but nothing. Clay was still out.

"Are you ready to talk?" A different voice that spoke much better English, his accent not as heavy, asked. "Water, food. You will eat and drink."

Brock didn't answer, didn't move.

"He has not yet woken?" The man sounded surprised. "He did not come willingly or easily."

Brock licked his lips, he knew he should keep quiet, not ask, not engage, his training was strong, ingrained in and upon him, but this was Clay and he had to know. 'Cause Clay never did what was expected.

"Blow to the head?" He kept his tone casual even though his throat was thick and his stomach in a knot. Good God, the kid kept getting blows to the head, he'd be a drooling veggie one day soon, his brain mush.

"Aah, so you can speak without cursing me." The man speaking stepped into the room, set another cup of water near Brock along with a bowl, moved back. "No, he is not knocked out. He fought the attempt to subdue him with ether. It merely rendered him compliant until we were able to inject him with a tranquilizer."

Brock hoped his face remained in the shadows because he winced, lip curling as he squeezed his eyes closed. Good God no, not that.

No wonder he'd yet to come around. Clay didn't come out of anesthesia well, reacted negatively to sedation, and threw severe reactions to being doped up or drugged. How the hell was he supposed to sit idly by while Clay went through that kind of pain and discomfort again? There was only one way Brock would be able to comfort or help Clay and to do that would give away that they knew each other. Brock didn't even know what kind of reaction Clay might have.

Hell, depending on what they gave him, based on the last time….jaw clenched, Brock firmly shut down that line of thought.

"What do you want?" Brock bit out, he needed a distraction. What, dear God, if Clay didn't come out of being drugged this time? There was no way to help him and even if he could, Brock's knowledge of first aid and immediate medical care, did not extend to IV antiemetics.

"We do not wish your death. We wish your cooperation, your assistance. We know to tread carefully with American Navy Seals, especially one at your, aah, level with your training. You proved to be both stubborn and resilient, so when the opportunity arose to take him," he pointed to Clay, "it was too good to pass up." Brock's eyes had adjusted enough to see the man standing before him. Again, two armed guards remained at the door.

Brock scowled. And just how had they come to that conclusion? He had gone with them willingly. Had stepped off the porch and just walked away. He hadn't fought or argued. Had gotten into the odd-looking vehicle with the weird tires and woken up here. No one had come near him until they'd brought him water and Clay. How the fuck was that being stubborn?

No, really, how the hell had he been stubborn? Man, that was pissing him off! How did they know he was a Navy Seal? Did they know he was from an elite Tier One team? He was sure they did. What did they want from him?

"We would have taken your teammate on the front porch, but we could not get him without exposing ourselves. When he came out the back, he was not alone. We did not want to be discovered."

Either they were jumping around changing topics or Brock's ability to hear everything they were saying was compromised. Clay was beginning to stir and had Brock's attention. He felt the hold near his calf as Clay held onto him, detected the change in his breathing as the kid either became aware of the situation or fought against pain and nausea. Brock couldn't decide which.

Hang in there kid, Brock thought, prayed, wait until they're gone before you show any signs of coming around.

"I don't care what you want. It doesn't matter, I won't help you."

"You don't get to say no." The man smiled. Or sneered. Brock wasn't sure which. His eyes had adjusted but the man was heavily bearded and the light dim. "Well you do, but you won't." To prove his point, he grabbed Clay by his ankles and dragged him away from Brock.

Brock tensed, poised to fight if Clay threw a fit, but he didn't. He remained limp as he was belly-dragged away from Brock, his hold broken on Brock's pant leg without resistance. Damn, he must still be out. Brock wished he knew how much time had passed since they'd brought Clay in.

So far, to him, his captors had not been brutal. Or even harsh. If they had been to Clay, Brock didn't yet know. The worst they'd done to him was leave him alone without food or water until they'd dragged Clay in. And God, while Brock would dearly love to deny them the satisfaction of seeing him eat and drink, he couldn't. He had to remain strong and level-headed for Clay….who was not fine.

Brock sat up. Kept his jaw clenched, eyes averted when Clay was kicked in the side to see if he would wake up. Not a savage kick, wouldn't break bones or even leave a bruise, but the abuse would likely get worse. How patient would these men be waiting for Clay to come around on his own?

And what would they do if Clay woke up sick and disoriented?

"Can I have a light?" Brock hated asking for anything, but being able to see Clay would help. He needed to bring Clay awake if he could. "Whatever you want from me, I need to be able to see." He waited. "Constant darkness leaves a strain on my eye sight."

His captor did not move, did not agree, simply waited for Brock to obey his order to eat and drink. Brock sighed, Christ, he hated obeying this man.

"You are wise to cooperate." He was told when he picked up the cup. "It has been three days, eat slowly."

He wanted to eat quickly so they would take the empty bowl and leave, but his captor was correct, he needed to eat slowly because his stomach had to accept the offer of food. Giving himself a stomachache and cramps would in no way help Clay.

"We will speak in the morning." The man said, shoving Clay onto his back with a hard push with his foot. "He'd better be awake by then or I won't be happy."

Clay didn't like being on his back. Brock wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, hoping his touch would keep the kid calm until the men had gone and they were alone in the darkness, but that wasn't possible. Clay was too far away and displaying affection by touch would surely tip this man off something there was between his two captives. This man was not stupid.

Brock let the spoon fall into the empty bowl and set it aside. He finished the water and put the cup in the bowl. Satisfied, his captor collected the bowl and empty cup, nodded that he was happy with Brock's cooperation and withdrew from the room. Before the door closed, a battery operated lantern was set just inside the door. It was small and ineffective as a weapon, but Brock wanted to kiss it.

He waited until the door closed and the room was plunged into darkness, then turned his full attention to Clay who had rolled over and gained his knees, one palm splayed on the dirt floor, his left arm curled tight against his stomach.

"Spence? Hey, I need you with me. Fight it, come on. Don't be sick. Not here. I've got nothing for you." He turned the lamp on. It cast a weak glow, but it was enough he saw which corner Clay was crawling towards. "No, not that corner." He snagged an ankle, pulled the kid back towards him. "You gotta puke, go that way."

Clay went down on his side, half sprawled on his stomach, cheek scraping the dirt with a grunt. Brock immediately let him go, rolled towards him and put his face next to Clay's ear.

"Hey, you with me? You gonna hurl? Come on, can you get up? This way….over here."

Clay tried to plant his palms and push up but neither his hands nor his arms would cooperate. His left hand, wrist, arm, elbow, shoulder were either numb or tingling or trying to kill him.

Well, his elbow would have to stand in line. Jason was going to literally thrash him this time. No doubt about it, a verbal tongue lashing would not suffice over this. He was so fucked.

Brock sighed, thanked God again for the dim lantern. He could see Clay favored his left arm, hoped that meant Clay was coming out of whatever drug-induced haze he was in. He needed water and blankets and towels, a pail for the kid to puke in, to help Clay get through coming out of being drugged. They'd been through this before. Trent always kept the kid warm, quiet, still. Depending how bad it was, sometimes he had Clay on IV meds, other times, just fed him crackers and cherry 7Up.

What he had, was…not a fucking thing. Just a hug and a lap to lie in.

He chewed his lip. Asking for aid or help from his captors risked them finding out who Clay was. Would that be a good thing? Would they believe him? If they knew, would they still try and use him against Brock? Probably. Or would they then have two Tier One operatives to use? And how then, would they gain – force – their cooperation?

Clay let Brock take hold of him but protested when Brock tried to grab him under the arms. He flinched away, ducking his left shoulder. Brock immediately let go and moved to his right side when Clay vocally protested any touch to his left arm.

"Shoulder?" he asked, letting Clay stagger on his knees in the corner of the room he'd led him to. "Don't bend over too far." Brock warned. Useless warning, Clay was either beyond the ability to comprehend or simply couldn't obey, so Brock kept a firm hold on him, arm around his belly.

This was not going to go well.

Brock blinked, tears welled. If only he hadn't gone with the woman back at the house. If only he'd yelled or shouted a warning, called for help. If only he'd fired his rifle. If only he'd left a message, a clue, something, anything…..then Clay wouldn't be here. He'd be safe at home where they'd left him. He wouldn't have been captured. Wouldn't be going through this now. Wouldn't be cold and in pain and suffering the effects of being drugged. Wouldn't go through God knew what to force Brock into complying with their wishes.

And Sonny would be dead. Probably Derek as well. Maybe Ray. He rubbed his eyes. All his training and nothing had prepared him for this.

He shook his head, clearing the thoughts from his mind. He needed to focus on Clay, not throw himself a pity party. Clay was done puking for the moment, sitting on his hip against the wall. Brock held the lantern close, peering into Clay's face, pale and tight, mouth drawn, eyes closed. His bottom lip puffy from bite marks, forehead furrowed, eyes casting dark shadows…well, damn. Telltale signs pointed out by Trent.

The kid was in some serious pain.

Brock sat back, set the lantern down. Okay, from where?

"Lemme see your arm." He reached out, not giving much thought to the way Clay held it against his stomach. Clay dealt well with pain so Brock was totally unprepared for the blood-curdling shriek when he took hold of the kid's left elbow.

What the fuck?

Brock jerked back, startled by this never-before reaction from Clay. Before he could say a word, Clay went limp against him. What the…? Had Clay passed out? From what? Pain? Brock swallowed hard, this wasn't good. Not good at all. Clay, of all people, did not pass out from pain.

"Yeah, okay." Brock blew his breath out. "Sorry, sorry. I'm sorry." He sat for a moment with Clay's weight against his chest and he made no attempt to move the kid. He mentally went over his initial exam of Clay only hours ago. He hadn't found any broken bones or stab or puncture wounds. Might be a bad sprain, but Clay wouldn't scream at something that minor. Dislocated shoulder?

Brock carefully juggled Clay's weight until he was able to lay him on the floor without further pain. It was disturbing how good he was at that. Usually, it was to take or transfer Clay from one lap or set of arms to another. Didn't matter, he knew how to do it.

And Stella goes and leaves him all alone.

Right, not the time Brock ole buddy.

Lantern dangling from his teeth, he quickly felt Clay's shoulder, searching for a dislocation or other injury, but found nothing. Clay didn't flinch or twitch during his probing and pinching. So, not his shoulder. So, what then? He wasn't moving his left arm at all…..

"Spenser, so help me, I'll kick your ass myself." Brock muttered. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Clay wore a long-sleeved t-shirt and when Brock tried to work the sleeves up his arms, Clay remained quiet and silent until Brock tried to hold Clay's left hand. Still unconscious, he groaned, moving away.

Yeah, definitely the left arm. How the hell had he missed it before? Well, to be fair, he hadn't had a light. Right, so okay then, he needed the kid awake and aware and talking to him. Not on his knees, puking in the corner. Not shaking and shivering coming out of being drugged. Not humped over or passed out from pain. Not dazed and confused and disoriented because he'd been drugged.

He sighed.

Forcing Clay awake would subject him to pain and misery, yet Brock had to know how and where he was injured. Jaw clenched, he eased Clay off the floor and across his lap, careful of his left arm. Once Clay felt the body warmth, felt Brock, his fingers clenched Brock's shirt near his belly. Brock gave him several minutes to feel secure then quietly began calling his name, tickling along Clay's side and belly, easing his hand under the shirt to ghost the healing scar from the stitches with this fingertips. Oh yeah, he knew how to wake Clay up….well, not so much 'wake him', but bring him around.

God, this was worse than being blackmailed/forced into allowing himself taken hostage and forced to do his captors bidding.

"Clay? Hey." Brock let off tickling and rubbing when Clay moved. "You with me? Need you to talk to me."

Clay didn't want to talk to anyone. He hurt, he was cold, he didn't feel good and staying 'asleep' made everything all better. But training and repetition of obeying orders overrode his reluctance to answer and he began the arduous climb to consciousness.

Brock felt the change in Clay's posture, felt him tense, relax, tense, ease; felt his breath quicken on his bare arm until he was panting; felt his head roll, bump against his shoulder, felt him draw his knees up; felt his stomach muscles knot and bunch…..ohohohohoh…..not going to be good.

Brock knew, depending on how long Clay heaved and gagged and spit and vomited, he'd have to bang on the door and demand water. Yeah, Clay would only throw it up, but eventually he would start to keep it down and Brock would continue to give him small sips so his belly didn't cramp and he didn't dehydrate.

There was a reason Eric freaked out over the team not getting enough to drink and that reason was right here in his lap. Never, had they seen or known anyone to dehydrate as quickly as Clay Spenser. And Brock had no idea how long Clay had been held captive, given no water or food.

"Aww kid, I'm sorry." Brock let Clay drape over one leg, held his head up by a hand in his hair. "Go ahead, hurl. Don't try and hold it back, won't do any good anyway."

What would Trent do if he were here? Keep the kid warm, offer comfort, sit and wait for him to come around. Well, okay, Brock could do that – was doing that. He carefully slid his leg out from under Clay, who protested with a whimper but didn't try to stop him.

Brock retrieved the blanket, sat down next to Clay, tossed it over him and waited. Sure enough, soon as Clay stopped heaving for a moment, he rolled into Brock's lap, sighed softly at the warm hand that rested on his back and fisted the hem of Brock's shirt.

"Yeah, I know." Nothing to do except hold the kid and pray he coughed that shit up, spit it out, didn't choke and pray it didn't last too much longer.

Clay was cold and prickly hot. He didn't feel good at all. His arm was killing him and nothing he did, eased the pain. He knew all he had to do was somehow communicate to Brock where it hurt and Brock would make it better, but he didn't know how to do that. He knew he was with Brock, but not where they were or how either of them had gotten there, or why. He needed more time to get on top of it all.

Brock just sat. His butt went numb, his thigh cramped, his knee became a dull ache, his back went stiff, his neck didn't want to move, his hand had a kink…but he didn't move. Clay had finally stopped trying to heave his belly out of his throat and was quiet, still and Brock wasn't going to a damn thing that upset or unsettled the kid.

"Brock?"

Brock blinked, all pain and pins and needles forgotten. He fumbled for the lantern, it was just out of reach, but by nearly dislocating a hip, he was able to snag it and pull it close without disturbing Clay.

"Hey, sssssh…..you're okay."

"Is….there…..any…..water?"

Brock's eyes closed. God Dammit! The first thing the kid says, asks for and Brock had to tell him no.

"Sorry kid."

Clay shifted. Brock heard him sniff. Christ, now the kid was fighting tears. Really? Crying over water? Not likely.

"My arm….hurts."

"It's not broken." Brock said quietly. "Shoulder isn't dislocated."

"No." Clay agreed. "Elbow is."

Brock felt the mental blow. Knocked the breath right out of him. Now, he knew nowhere near as much as Trent, but he remembered when Trent had popped Sonny's shoulder back into place out in the field once during combat. He hadn't been gentle, he hadn't taken the time to ease Sonny's discomfort in anyway. Had joked that Sonny should be happy it was his shoulder and not his elbow. Then he'd really have something to scream about, the wimp.

Only Clay. Brock sighed, headache front and center. Stress, tension, anxiety, fear….take your pick.

"How'd you do that?" Brock asked only when he was sure he could speak evenly, no infliction in his voice. "Just gonna touch your wrist, not gonna make you move." Hey Trent, buddy wherever you are, thanks for the crash course and update in first aid…just, never thought I'd need it like this. Oh, and oh yeah, found what kind of pain the kid can't top - his elbow.

God Bless the kid, he moved, turning more onto his back so Brock could check his hand and wrist without having to grope. Brock prayed he'd find Clay's hand warm, not cold. Nerve damage and a damaged artery were beyond his ability to help.

"Can you feel my hand?" Brock asked, blinking at tears of relief when he found Clay's hand warm, his pulse strong.

"Yeah, you're feeling my pulse."

"Can you move your fingers?"

"Don't want to."

"Can you?"

Clay tried. It hurt like a mother-fucker, caused tears to swell but yes, he could move his hand, rotate his wrist. Made him cry though and Brock felt like shit for asking him to do it.

"Is it numb?"

"Not really. Tingles. Just hurts."

Brock was silent, fingers absently pulling on tangled curls. "I don't have anything to give you."

"I know."

"Nothing for the pain, no ice, no sling." He cursed silently. "Could knock you out."

"Probably will pass out anyway."

Brock was silent. Hopefully the dislocation was simple and straightforward. If it turned out to be a complex dislocation with displaced ligaments and blood or nerve injuries, well, kid was screwed. Even surgery and PT would never set it right. And proper medical treatment would be delayed. Brock was encouraged by the pulse and the warm skin, but did he dare leave it unaligned and dislocated? Would he do more damage attempting to pop it back into place? Was that even correct terminology?

He thought back to all his first aid training. Had they ever gone over popping displaced joints back into place? Yeah, they had. He'd never done it though. Trent, dude, hey buddy, what would you do?

"Can you put it back?" Clay sat up. "I can't stand this."

"Jesus Clay, it's gonna hurt like a bitch."

"Does now."

"How'd you do it?"

"Fell." Clay sounded disgusted. "Out of a truck while it was moving."

"You jumped." He felt Clay shrug. "You came out of being drugged better this time."

"Wasn't blown up a week before."

Brock nodded, true. "Trent ain't never gonna let you go home."

"Don't matter. Jason's going to thrash me."

"Yeah, you're supposed to be home in Virginia."

"You're supposed to be not here."

"Wanna lie down?"

"Can I bawl in your lap?" Clay joked.

Brock laughed. Oh kid, you have and you don't even know it!

"If you manage to stay awake, sure." He was now somber. "I dunno if I can hurt you like that."

"Trent could, Sonny could, Jason would." Clay pointed out. "It hurts Brock."

Yeah, Brock knew that. It had to, Clay had passed out when Brock tried to move his arm.

"You with me? Clear-headed?"

"For now." He licked his lips, wanting water. "I had no idea you were the missing soldier we were sent to find."

"What the fuck were you doing on a search and rescue unit?"

"Dunno. Command called and I was ordered to go. All they would tell me was it was a Black Ops mission."

"Hey, huh. Lookit that. I'm the op." Brock joked, easing Clay flat onto his back. "I know, I know, you don't like being on your back, just hang in there a minute." He held Clay's left hand, squeezed gently, elicited a hiss and a wince. Clay's knees came up, heels digging into the floor.

Though Brock hated hurting him, he was encouraged Clay felt the squeeze. If he didn't have feeling in his hand, if Brock couldn't feel his pulse in his wrist, then the injury was much worse than a simple dislocation and popping the joint back into place wouldn't ease Clay's pain.

"Think of what Sonny would say if you screamed like a girl."

"He'd babble…" Clay hissed when Brock gently but firmly, worked his arm straight. Pushing against his heels, he slid on his back away from Brock who patiently grabbed his open fly flap and dragged him back. "...that…..it was….offensive to women….." He raised his head, frowning at his unbuckled belt and open pants.

"That was me." Brock assured him. "Hold your arm right there." He thumbed the disconnect at the elbow. "Sorry. I, ah, had a hard time believing you of all people were here. Um, several things added up; a scent, the hair, the three dog tags, your habit of….so, I felt for the scars from the stitches." He repositioned his thumb, moving his hand, still holding Clay's hand with his other.

Clay opened his mouth to question what habit he had that would make Brock think he was here and not home in Virginia, when Brock suddenly applied pressure with this thumb and pulled hard but not violently on Clay's wrist.

He yelped instead.

The harder Brock pulled, the louder Clay yelled.

"Stay still," Brock murmured. "Keep your arm still…." He thumbed a pressure point near the elbow and with a soft pull and deft twist, the joint realigned.

Clay's knees came up, his feet left the floor and though he tried, he couldn't hold back the cry of pain that had Brock apologizing as he bent Clay's arm towards his chest several times until he was satisfied Clay had free and full, if painful, unrestricted movement.

He thought the sudden jar and flare of additional pain would blow any level Clay maintained of being aware and alert and he was right. Clay, eyes closed, held his arm close against his stomach, moaning softly. Brock waited, but when Clay wasn't sick – well, didn't resume heaving – Brock grabbed him by his ankles and dragged him on his back away from the corner.

He dragged the blanket with him, made Clay sit up so he could wrap it around his shoulders, then let the kid lay down. Brock knew Clay would want to be close, but he needed to see if Clay's screams of pain had alerted anyone.

If they came in, wouldn't do for them to find Brock sitting on the floor, holding Clay.

After mentally counting off a good five minutes, he waited several more, then finally sat down next to Clay and let the kid roll close. He tucked Clay's arm close against his body, much like Clay had held it and pulled the blanket tighter. He wished for ice and a sling, but would have to make do.

Now, come morning – whenever the fuck that was – would Clay be able to hide the injury from their captors?

"I'm right here kid, lean on me, you need to. I'll get us outta this, I promise." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Might get worse, gonna hafta hang in there for me, 'k?"


	4. Chapter 4

Woot, Jason and Ray reunited. Yay!  
Now, let's not build conflict between Ray and Clay or Sonny and Clay, ya hear me show?  
And if there is yet another death – it better not be one of the six, Eric, Davis or Mandy, ya hear me show?  
When this story line was suggested, I was like, sure! I can work with that. Then, I found that..…torture squicks me out…so took me a few days with this chapter!

* * *

"Eric." Commander McCall set a take-out cup of coffee on the table in front of Eric who was dozing, head on one arm stretched across the table. "You sleep here all night?"

Eric stirred, rubbing his chin against his elbow. His eyes, dry and scratchy from lack of sleep, burned and itched and even though he could close them, they were so tight, they felt like they were wide open. With a yawn and a grimace, he lifted his head, ran a hand through his hair. His mouth was dry, his teeth fuzzy and he wondered when the last time was he'd seen a toothbrush.

"Good morning." McCall greeted. "Were you not provided with a bed?"

"McCall." He pushed off the table, sat up, stretched. "The hell are you doing here?" He'd put in several calls to McCall as well as others in command above and over and beyond him, but hadn't received one single response. Well, until now.

"How are the guys?"

"How do you think they are?" Eric snapped. He reached for the coffee. "They're worried, scared, pissed."

"And they want to go looking for him."

"It's Hayes." Eric said. "Of course they do. I do. We all do. This sitting around here doing nothing, sucks. No reason we can't be out there instead of sitting here with our thumbs up our ass."

McCall handed Eric an egg and ham sandwich, took a seat opposite Eric. "They can't lead a search mission." He set a bottle of orange juice next to the coffee. He waited for Eric to look up at him. It took several minutes. "But, if _you_ wanted a change in scenery, _you_ could request a transport vehicle."

And there it was. Finally! McCall's unofficial permission for Eric to take Bravo and go look for Brock. They wouldn't have Davis or Mandy in command to assist them and they wouldn't be able to interfere with the Marines search units, but as long as Eric was with them, they wouldn't be reprimanded for being off base.

He reached for the sandwich, opened the juice. He wasn't hungry and he didn't want to eat, but he had to swallow something.

"If they happen to stray?"

McCall shrugged, eyes averted. "If they, uh, happen to wander, I should eventually be notified."

"Davis?" .

"In the field?" McCall blurted in surprise.

Eric held the sandwich, mouth opened for a bite. He just looked at his Commander.

"You want to take a woman out there? Off base? Jesus Eric, are you fucking nuts? It isn't safe."

"She has a way with them sir."

"Is it worth the risk?"

Eric shrugged. It was his job to get permission to take her with them, it was Jason's decision whether or not she would accompany them. She could remain in the transport vehicle with a member or two of Bravo support while Jason and his men cracked skulls and kicked down doors.

"Make sure they eat something." McCall suggested – ordered. "No one has been sleeping, they won't see the, uh, 'pretty scenery', they're sleepy and muddle-headed."

Eric nodded and with a firm slap on his back, McCall departed. Well, that was unexpected but Eric was not going to question it.

He quickly ate, finished the coffee and juice, then went to shower and change. They wouldn't be able to take Alpha and all of support with them, but a team of 8 would be acceptable.

As expected, Trent, Ray and Sonny were with Jason when Eric finally tracked them down in the quarters where support bunked down. Sonny was the first to glance up, then did a double-take when he noticed Eric was showered, hair combed, dressed in civvies.

"What do you want Blackburn?" He was doodling with colored pencils – huh, red blood splatter on grey stick-figures. Eric kinda hoped one wasn't supposed to be him. "Haven't thrown a punch, lemme alone."

"You need to eat….." Eric began, waited patiently while he was interrupted.

"Not hungry."

"Later."

"Not now."

Eric held his hand up. Patience was needed when dealing with this team – all the time, but damn today was hard to keep his temper. They all sported the same look: red, dry eyes with dark circles beneath, unshaven – well, they always were, so, unkempt beards – hair at odds with their heads.

"Let me finish." He paused. "You need to eat, then shower and dress in civvies. I have permission for a," he made air quotes with his fingers, "change of scenery. The transport vehicle can comfortably fit 8."

Jason, slumped against the wall on a bunk, whittling a stick into a smaller stick, mentally counted as he sat up; him, his three men, Eric, Derek from Alpha, Kenny and Karl from support.

"Off record." Ray turned off his music, pulled the ear buds from his ears.

"Nice day to sightsee." Trent said and walked out.

Eric held a grin. No need to twist anyone's arm. Sonny and Ray followed Trent.

"Jay? Hey." Eric held Jason up. "They in control? No one has slept or had a meal."

"And you have?" Jason growled. "They're good."

"Are you?"

"What do you think?"

Eric nodded. "Gotta keep control…Call Clay?"

"Tried, no answer. Told him to call me." He started to follow his men but Eric caught his arm.

"Hey, I'll be right there next to you, I'll hold whoever so you can break knee-caps, but Jason, within reason."

Jason stared until Eric nodded. "Won't kill anyone."

()

"You're letting them go?"

McCall shrugged, cast a look at the Naval Commander seated opposite him. "Best Tier One unit the Navy has sitting idle makes sense to whom?"

"Emotions McCall. They're highly strung on a good day. Loose cannons every damn day. Destructive doesn't begin to describe that team when they're after someone who hurt them. One of the own held captive? Come on. Quinn will bust heads. Will be hard to cover up, he burns a village to the ground."

"Marines have found nothing, learned nothing. Been four days. Much longer and we get Reynolds back…." McCall paused. "We're pushing it now."

"What do you think they'll be able to find no one else could?"

"They're emotionally invested, determined. Hayes has the damnedest luck, let them see what they can turn up."

***000***

Brock paced, rubbing his thumbs over his eyebrows. Christ, he had a headache. He hadn't slept because Clay hadn't settled down. He was passed out, unconscious, unresponsive…whatever, take your fucking pick, because Brock sure as hell didn't know. He tried to bring Clay around, but this time, he didn't get a response to repeated name calling, shoulder-shakes or gentle face slaps. Not even tickles to the scars.

Within minutes of Brock sitting down next to him, he was stirring. Brock didn't know what it was that Clay didn't like about being tied down on his back, but he thought being wrapped in the blanket was making the kid uneasy, so he pulled it loose and just laid it over him, but it didn't make a difference. Clay was still uneasy.

Brock next tried pulling Clay into his lap, a movement, a gesture that had always worked in the past, but not this time. Clay squirmed and wiggled and twisted. He didn't thrash or fight or flail, but he just would not lie still. When Brock finally gave up and put him on the floor, Clay turned from his right side to his back, to his belly, to his side…not still longer than a few minutes before bringing his knees up or digging his heels into the floor, knees splaying, legs spreading, thighs clenching together. A whine, a whimper, a moan, a groan, a cry, he just didn't stop.

So Brock paced, hands clasped together behind his neck. He stopped and knelt every fourth time he passed the kid. Felt for a pulse in Clay's left hand, thanked God when he found it. Felt his elbow to reassure himself he had indeed popped it properly back into place. Then he paced some more.

He sat down a time or two, waited to see if Clay would move close, settle down like he usually did if he had someone to hold on to….He didn't.

Brock finally halted, back slumped against the wall near the door, hands shoved into his front pockets. This was not how captivity was supposed to go. This, this, this…..scenario had never been addressed in training. Ever.

This reaction from a dislocated elbow? Brock snorted. Not bloody likely. What then, was the kid's problem?

He rhythmically bumped his head against the wall….for how long he had no idea. Didn't help his headache abate - he didn't care. He thought about the months since the kid had joined Bravo. The incidents, the injuries, the reactions, but nothing like this. Aw hell! _He just didn't know._

Was a dislocated elbow that painful? Brock didn't think so. Was Clay's threshold for pain compromised? Brock wouldn't know. Was Clay still suffering a reaction from being drugged? Brock thought he was through it. How fast had the truck been going when he'd jumped? Was he injured internally? As far as Brock knew, the kid hadn't reacted violently to any sore spots, hadn't vomited blood.

He was too tired, too mentally weary to move when he heard the lock in the door being turned. He slowly slid down the wall, buried his head in his arms folded over his knees and waited, breath held.

He felt sick. He wanted to beg for help to make Clay feel better, all the while knowing they'd likely…..Brock swallowed hard, gulped…..torture him to gain Brock's cooperation. He would have to sit there and watch them hurt the kid because whatever they wanted from him, wouldn't be something Brock would willingly do.

And knowing Clay, sick from pain, still feeling the after-effects of being drugged, he'd be cocky as all hell and be able to tolerate more pain come morning, or whenever. Maybe now.

The door opened and light flooded the room. One man, no guards this time.

Brock sighed, shuddering as shivers ran down his spine. Fuck. Clay hadn't responded to the noise, light or the door opening. Brock weighed his options, came to a conclusion all in less than 3 seconds. Rushing the man and getting Clay shot was not going to happen, so he stayed where he was and waited.

A tray was set inside the door. The light went out, the door closed, Brock heard it lock, and they were left in silence and darkness.

He pushed to his feet, turned the lantern on and went to see what they'd brought him: tin cups of water…..a bowl with handles that held some kind of hot liquid and a blanket.

Wow, way to be generous.

Brock took the blanket tangled around Clay and tugged it free. He folded it over a couple times, laid it on the floor, sat down on it, reached up, grabbed Clay by the shoulder and dragged him close.

"Clay, kid, you with me?" He felt for the pulse in Clay's wrist, had to feel it every time he touched the kid to reassure himself that it was still there, then ignoring Clay's whimper and cry of pain, made him sit up. "Just water, sip it, okay? Hey….Clay, open your mouth…." He waited. "Come on here kid, open up."

But Clay wasn't responsive, didn't react to Brock's light jostling or repeated name calling. Brock got on his knees, lifted Clay's head from the floor and put the cup to his lips, hoping once Clay tasted the water, he would drink it.

"That's it. Good, huh?" He took a drink then offered more to Clay, who sipped, licking with his tongue as long as Brock held the cup for him. "No more? Okay." He wished Clay would have accepted more but he wasn't going to force it on him. He let him lie down, set the cup aside and picked up the bowl. His nose told him it was supposed to be some kind of soup, maybe just broth. He wasn't used to the spices used over here to flavor food, so couldn't even guess what the hell it was. Doubtful it was chicken noodle, sure as hell didn't smell like it.

He took a sip, shrugged. Not bad, nothing he would ever make or even order in a café for himself, but he was hungry and would eat it, would try and share it with Clay.

"Okay, come here." He pulled the kid across his lap to get him off the damp dirt, spread the second blanket over them both and patiently shared the bowl of soup with Clay, who didn't really want it but when Brock gave him the order to swallow, he did.

He chuckled softly at the face Clay made. Apparently, the soup or broth, whatever the hell it was, was not to his liking so Brock didn't force him to eat any more.

"No? Okay, I'll drink it, you can have the water." He continued to offer Clay sips of water, let him squirm and fret until he finally, either exhausted or feeling relief, laid quietly in Brock's arms, drinking the water as often as Brock tipped the cup to his lips.

"Trent, dude, I owe you a bottle of Macallan Scotch, dealing with him like this all the time." Brock set the cup aside after finishing the water. "Boss, you can come get us anytime now."

()

Clay woke up, stiff and sore. He was on his right side and his hip ached, his legs cold, his head was on a pillow and his arms covered with a blanket. He stretched, blinking to bring the dim room into focus. The light was weak, casting a poor glow that extended no further than his feet.

Sighing, cramped and uncomfortable, he pushed with his right hand, managed to sit up and just sat on his hip, waiting for his head to clear, the pain in his left arm to subside…..one out of two wasn't so bad. The pain didn't ease but his memory came back.

Clay looked at Brock who still slept, remembered being sent to find the Seal who had gone missing, not knowing it was his own teammate – friend – brother. He wondered if Brock had any idea what the hell was going on. Did it matter? Probably not.

He felt he should get up, see where he was, inspect the room, seek weaknesses. Wake Brock, discuss their options, but he was so tired and sick to his stomach that it actually hurt, yes hurt, to breathe. What was up with that? His chest was tight, his stomach knotted. Right, drugged. Fuck.

He just sat, licked his lips, tried to rub his eyes but his left arm didn't move, only his right did and when he raised it, he missed his head completely. Christ, he couldn't ever remember a time when he felt like this. Wasn't much he could do about it, not like he could get up and go find Trent.

Feeling like he was going to be sick, he tried to get up but the pain from his fingertips to his shoulder took his breath, his balance, his ability to move. He groaned, stifling a yelp but Brock was awake, sitting up, an arm around Clay's shoulders.

"Hey, you with me?"

Clay shrugged, tried to move his hand, cried out.

"Your arm's gonna ache for a while, nothing I can do for you."

Bottom lip trapped between his teeth, Clay hunched his right shoulder up to his ear, tried again to move his left arm, raised watery eyes to Brock, shook his head.

"Easy." Brock told him. "Pulse is strong, hand's warm, so yeah, it hurts, but you're okay."

"Fuck me." He blew his breath out. There were questions he wanted to ask, things he needed to know, but he felt his mind wander, his attention divert and desert. Surrendering to pain and the pulling darkness would soon happen.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Brock demanded. "You should have slept the drug off or come out of whatever reaction you might have thrown by now, you were okay before."

"I dunno." Clay began to shake and couldn't stop. "Don't feel so good." He made an effort to pull it together. "Who are they? What do they want?"

"My cooperation but I don't know for what."

"How long have you been here?"

"Dunno, three days, four….might be five."

"How did they get you?"

"Showed me a live video feed of Sonny, I went with them willingly." Brock pulled the blanket around Clay's shoulders, hugged him close in an attempt to offer him warmth and ease his shaking. "You?"

"Aah, on my own….. there were four of them…."

"The rescue unit left you on your own?"

"Don't think they wanted me with them."

"Jason's going to have a fucking fit." Brock shook his head. "And Trent, Christ he's not going to let you out of his sight for a month, and...Sonny...oh man."

"Someone's….gonna…" He swallowed hard, breaking out in a heavy sweat, suddenly clammy. "….explain that…..ugh…..water's not gonna stay…."

"Right, okay, up you go." Brock got to his feet, pulled Clay to his, led him over to the corner where he'd been sick before, knelt down, kept a hand on the back of Clay's neck and just waited for it pass. "Jesus Clay….breathe."

"Mmmm…tryin'…..hurts."

"You feel hot. Do you feel hot?" Brock frowned. Why the hell would the kid be running a fever?

"I feel…awful."

Kid might be in a world of pain, but circulation in his arm was fine and Brock was encouraged, that with Clay's history of quick recovery time and ability of avoiding serious injury, there wouldn't be any permanent damage from the dislocation.

"Yeah buddy, I know." Brock ruffled his hair, felt Clay relax, then finally go limp. Here's one for you Trent; kid screams if you touch him, are dislocated elbows really that painful?

Brock again dragged Clay away from the corner, let him down on his side on top of one blanket, covered him with the other. They were both asleep when the door opened and both men who had greeted him previously entered the room.

"Time to talk."

Brock surged to his feet when Clay was picked up and carried away but when he tried to intervene or follow, he was held back.

"You will come with us."

His hands tied behind his back, Brock was led from the room. He stumbled, blinded from bright, unprotected light bulbs as he was led up a flight of wooden steps, through a kitchen, down a hall and into a room with a laptop on a table. As his eyes adjusted he recognized he was in a house and outside the window, daylight was waning.

Clay was held by a large goon, his arms held behind his back. Force wasn't needed, the mere bending and restraint of his left arm had him fighting to stay conscious and on his feet. In fact, he was only on his feet because he was held up.

"What do you want?" Brock asked, looking away from Clay, hoping he successfully kept the wince and scowl from showing on his face. He wanted to demand they release Clay, but he couldn't do that. Not yet.

The goon, tired of trying to keep Clay from collapsing to the floor - he wasn't the biggest guy on Bravo, but he wasn't light to hold or carry either, oh how well Brock knew that - soon sat Clay down on a wood chair with arms.

Brock, hands released and sitting on a wood chair, kept his gaze on the window, studying and mentally judging the terrain; rocks, dunes, hills - all sand. Even if he could run, here was no where to go without a truck. And he wasn't going anywhere unless he could take Clay with him. There were seven people in the room with him and Clay, one the woman who had led him away from Ray.

Not good odds.

They could shoot Clay in the arm or leg or shoulder...it wouldn't be fatal. Just painful. Infection. Loss of blood. Possible damage to muscle or tendon or bone...Brock shook his head, dislodging that line of thought. He continued to stare out the window but his peripheral vision was damn good and his eyes had completely adjusted, so yes, he knew they tied Clay's hands to the arms of the chair, his feet - minus his boots and socks - to the legs.

What he couldn't see is whether or not Clay remained conscious.

The two men exchanged a look. They thought several days of isolation with limited activity and interaction, minimal food and water would have weakened their captive, but it didn't appear to have had any effect on him. They'd also left him and Clay unattended until now because: 1) they were scared of Brock and 2) they hadn't wanted him to attempt and succeed with escape and 3) the job they wanted his help with would go down tonight.

"Do you know what this is?"

An image was displayed on the laptop when it was turned around to face Brock. Aye, he knew. An ammunition supply warehouse – not theirs, but it did supply American troops. He'd been to it, had an idea of what all it contained within its walls, but wasn't sure of its entire inventory either.

He had a sick feeling they wanted his help to get in and steal something. That place was guarded by American Army troops. Could he hurt, injure, sacrifice even one to save Clay some pain and discomfort? He swallowed hard – once, twice – save him from torture?

"You can make this easy on us and him. Just agree."

A hand tangled in Clay's hair, pulled his head up, forced his neck back. Brock was ready, nerves taunt, but not stretched to his breaking point. This was going to be hard, damn hard. Watching them hurt Clay to gain his cooperation would test his training, his own endurance. He knew that kid so fucking well…..knew when he was joking or teasing or playing or being stupid and annoying, deliberately acting like an ass. Knew when he was upset, hurting, scared, intimidated, out of his comfort depth, uncomfortable in a situation or social setting. Knew when he was mad, angry, pissed off, pushed too far, sad, grieving, sick, not feeling well….in pain, out of it and not with them.

"We want something from inside this wing. We want you to tell us about security, cameras, guards. We have blueprints and floor plans. We know American soldiers will not immediately fire at you. We want in and out."

"No." Whatever they wanted, it couldn't be good.

 _WHACK! CRUNCH! WHACK!_

Despite Clay's grunts and muffled cries, Brock remained still. So, they were going for the toes first. Fine, that was fine, broken toes healed without surgery - usually. Walking might be a bitch, crutches would help if only the toes on one foot were broken...just, Please God, let them stay away from his left hand.

Pliers.

Brock squirmed. God please, not his teeth...that goon was going to die. Brock wouldn't wait for Jason or Sonny to get their hands on him. He'd gut the man and leave him to die a slow, painful death staked out on a sand dune. No one needed to know and no one on Bravo would stop him.

Clay tensed, curled his fingers into a fist. Didn't matter, they went for his left hand and the mere pull on his wrist to get at his finger made him see black dots...he didn't even really feel his fingernail pulled off with the pliers...in too much agony from his arm for that 'minor' pain to hit him.

Brock did though, saw Clay's reaction, heard the yelp of agony, silently vowed death to everyone in the room.

"We want in and out. No one needs to get hurt."

Brock shook his head. Jesus Christ, no.

"We can do this all night."

The goon had fists the size of hams. Clay could take a beating, had before, would again, but a broken jaw here? Broken ribs? Christ, he wasn't a punching bag, he'd suffer internal injuries...the goon was pulling his punches, but still, the kid would be one huge bruise.

 _THWUMP! WHUMP! THUMP! THWUMP! WHUMP! THUMP! WATHUMP!_

Brock licked his lips. Grunts and groans were manageable, whimpers and whines made him wince, cries and yelps made him tense, his knee jounced. Despite his best efforts, he couldn't help but cringe, flinch a time or two, blanch when blood from Clay's nose splattered across the table holding the laptop.

"I can break his knees, he'll never walk right again."

Brock breathed out through his nose in relief. Once more punch to Clay's face or chest or stomach and he would have been out of his chair after the big ass goon.

The goon held a steel baton, smacked it repeatedly against his palm. Brock hid a wince, that would do some serious damage.

"I can break his thigh bone, you people call it the femur, do you not? A year long recovery, hmmm? Complications easily arise, blood clot, infection. And oh, the pain."

Brock struggled to keep horror from showing on his face. Could a femur actually be broken by such a method? Repeated blows from that baton? Hell, it was a weapon. He should know...he did know...but thinking was beyond his abilities right now.

 _THWACK!_

Brock jerked, Clay yelped. It was a hard hit, but not hard enough to do any damage other than cause pain and a bad bruise, still Clay reacted as expected, tugging instinctively on his bonds to escape the pain. All he succeeded in doing was pulling on his left arm, and he choked, tried not to puke.

 _THWACK!_

Same leg, same spot, a bit harder.

"What do you want?!" Brock asked, jaw clenched.

"A small canister. It will fit in your pocket."

So, not ammunition or grenades or any kind of weapon...unless...no...not possible.

"A nerve agent."

"No."

 _THWACK!_

Clay screamed this time. Brock truly believed the goon had the strength to break whatever bone he wanted to and he dug deep to discover whether or not he could let that happen.

"You can kill him," Brock said, proud his voice was steady, no emotion reflected. "Won't matter, I won't help you destroy innocent people."

"Oh no. Not kill." The laugh was sadistic. "Blind, deaf, mute. No fingers, no feet...how would he like to live like that? Hmmmm? Your fault. So, perhaps an eye."

The goon had a knife...Brock paled, felt his stomach knot, flop, settle wrong side up. Clay wasn't with it, but wasn't unconscious either. Would he even know?

The goon tangled a hand in Clay's hair, pulled his head up, laid the blade against his cheek, very slowly nicked his skin just below his eye. The trickle of blood brought Clay's eyes into focus.

"No." he muttered, tensing. He squirmed in the chair, stinging pain in his thigh forgotten. The pain in his left arm rendered him briefly unconscious. Another _THWACK_ to his thigh brought him around.

"Or his tongue."

The tip of the knife pricked Clay's bottom lip, nudged his teeth, gained entrance...he'd been tasting blood for awhile now, but the invasion into his mouth was one taste too much. He vomited, knife slicing his tongue when he choked, stomach clenching. Brock swallowed hard, struggling not to choke along with Clay.

"He has stamina. But we will break him."

Brock looked away. He simply could not help these people steal any kind of nerve agent. He couldn't. They didn't want it for anything good. Hundreds, maybe thousands of innocent people would be killed, die needlessly. Hell, it could be used against Americans on American soil. And why the fuck was any such 'weapon' stored in an ammunition supply warehouse? And how would these people know about it?

"Your weak spot, yes? Your fellow soldiers." He smiled evilly. "You came with us when we threatened to eliminate your teammate."

 _THWACK!_

Brock cringed, shoulders hunching up to his ears. Would he feel differently if the man across from him being beaten and all but tortured wasn't someone he knew? Wasn't Clay? Could he let any soldier, human be maimed for life?

"No." Brock managed to repeat.

Several quick hits just above Clay's knee, then another _THWACK_ to his thigh and if Clay hadn't been tied to the chair, he would have slithered right out of it, landing on the floor in a heap.

The next whack would likely crack a bone...how many hits had Clay taken so far? Brock had lost count. He took a deep breath, thought he was prepared to let that happen. Clay's head rolled, fell back, dropped to his chest...Christ, he was still conscious. Brock bit his tongue, waited...saw the rise of the baton...

"ALRIGHT!" He yelled, coming out of his chair and lunging for the raised arm. "ENOUGH! STOP! JUST STOP!"

The goon lowered his arm, didn't deliver that final blow. Brock whirled away when hands reached to grab him.

"I'll do what you ask." He swallowed hard, felt sick. "Just, stop. Leave him alone."

He was committed now. That warehouse was under both armed guarded and video surveillance. All he could do was find a way to let Jason know what was going on and hope Bravo would be able to rescue them before he was forced to actually steal anything.


	5. Chapter 5

The Marine units had not turned up a trace of Brock. Had no leads, no clues. Not even the team sent from Quantico, who was still out searching, had anything to report back or go on. Jason had given up on depending on the Marines. It was their fucking fault this had happened. This = Brock being missing. He was never going to run an op on their intel again.

Ever. He didn't care what Command said.

Bravo hadn't come across that team on their own search, who, under the lax and dubious supervision of Eric Blackburn, had been unofficially let off leash and turned loose. They turned over 'rocks' by kicking in doors, breaking walls, busting floors. They hadn't been above intimidation, scare tactics, brutality and violence – none of which would ever have been approved by Command as acceptable methods, but Eric could hardly reprimand them when he was the one carrying kids away from their mothers while Sonny and Jason roughed up their fathers.

Didn't matter – no one with Bravo cared. They had one mission, one goal and they would accomplish it by any means necessary – no matter if someone got hurt in the process.

They'd turned up one slight lead: a rumor of a possible raid on an ammunition supply warehouse. When, no one knew – soon though, very soon; why, hadn't been heard – best guess was the theft of something; what, was unknown – most likely not ammo. Who, was only a guess obtained after a broken arm, a busted nose and the thorough trashing of a house.

They knew the location and function of the warehouse, what they didn't know was the location where the rebels had refuge, their headquarters. The local residents were scared, weren't convinced the Americans would successfully eradicate the entire network of rebels that terrorized the local villages. Bravo couldn't possibly make them understand what would happen once they had their man back – that there would be no one left to terrorize anyone anymore. There was the language barrier, they were missing their interpreter, Clay, and hadn't been able to take another with them, they'd been out there on their own.

Jason had been hesitant to burn what little crops the people had or poison their water supply, absolutely refused to kill livestock but Sonny? Well, he hadn't killed any living, breathing person or animal…

That result – Sonny's rampage through a local market where not a fruit cart, vegetable stand or spice rack remained intact or edible – had them back at base, studying maps of an area where a small cluster of houses, too small to be a village, was reported to be. But no map they had, had any such grouping of buildings. Yes, it could be more false intel, but Lisa had a drone on its way and they were waiting for the first photos of the supposedly bare area marked on the map – over hill, yonder to the sand dune but not before the cluster of cacti prior to the dale, was the best direction they'd been given, and that had been from a 10 year-old girl Lisa had made a connection with – to come in.

Jason had wanted to set out immediately via chopper, but Eric reminded him they were still officially confined to base. If the drone showed any buildings at all – even an outhouse – they would set out via truck, no matter the hour.

Bravo support and Alpha were watching the warehouse 24/7, hoping, praying to learn something, anything while Bravo waited for the drone to make its way to the coordinates they'd pinpointed from the map.

"You think this is it?" Ray set a paper cup of coffee in front of Jason. "This information was obtained under duress." He sat down, kicked Jason's ankle. "Jace, come on. If he were dead, we would have found what was left of him by now, seen a video."

Jason winced, breathing shaky.

"That's blunt," Ray nodded, "I know. But Brock's strong boss, he'll be okay."

"That ain't it." Jason didn't reach for the coffee, didn't move, didn't bring his eyes into focus from their gazed, vacant stare at the TV monitor as the drone made its way across the dale to where they hoped to see a cluster of buildings not shown on any map.

"Sonny can be violent, you know that."

"Not it."

Ray rubbed his head, rotating his neck to crack the kinks. "What is your mind drumming up now?" Jesus, but Jason never stood down, never stopped. His mind constantly spun. Ray didn't know how he did it. "Spit it out."

"How are they making Brock do what they want?" He uncrossed his arms, tapped his fingers on the table, rubbed his thigh, pressed his forehead against his palms.

"What do you mean?" Lisa asked. "A minute or so, we'll be over head, just cleared the dale." She snorted. "Who uses that word over here anyway?"

"Little 10 year-old girls." Derek said. Lisa nodded, shrugged, gave him a sad smile.

"If the rebels are planning a raid on that warehouse, use Brock to get them in, how are they making him cooperate?" Jason got up, paced around the table one way, reversed, paced the other way, sat back down in the chair he'd just vacated, pushed to his feet, repeated the same trek. " _How_?!" He was missing something, dammit, what was he missing?

"If we hadn't found out about the possible raid, no one would know they were coming." Trent reasoned it out with his boss. "And if whatever they want is portable without a truck, with Brock leading them….yeah, they'd be in and out and no one would know it."

"We need to know what is in that warehouse someone would want bad enough, they'd risk taking a Seal to get it." Mandy picked up her cell and left the room.

"Once they get it, they won't need Brock anymore." Lisa said, she sat up. "We're there."

The grainy, night video feed showed the outlines of several buildings, numerous vehicles and three people patrolling the grounds.

"Well, I'll be a sonofabitch." Sonny breathed. "We need a new map."

Eric picked up the phone, called in the rest of Alpha and Bravo support, made arrangements for the Marines to take over surveillance of the warehouse.

"Plan." He ordered, joining Jason as the other men started to arrive. "Hope to God he's there." He wished they had more time to study the live feed, monitor the activity of the buildings, but they didn't. He wanted to hit that camp before they had the opportunity to load up and leave for the warehouse. "We're running out of time."

"We are." Mandy came back in. "Still waiting on an inventory list, but tonight is the night they replace the guards. There will be a lot of activity, easy to cause confusion by just blending in."

"What time does that happen?" Sonny asked.

"0200." Mandy replied.

"Do we wait for whoever the fuck they are, to come to the warehouse, take them there?" Ray asked.

Jason shook his head. "No guarantee they'd bring Brock with them. We go in hot, hit hard and fast, it moves, eliminate it. We'll go with our plan."

"Any questions? We good?" Eric asked. "We hit it tonight at 0100."

***000***

"Let him go." Brock said thickly. "Jesus Christ, untie him."

"Sit down." He was ordered. "You don't give orders, you take them."

Brock took a breath, hell, what did he have to lose now? "Untie him." He ordered, voice stronger, clearer. "Now."

Clay was limp, chin to chest, held upright by the ropes securing him to the chair. He bled from the mouth and nose, occasionally blew a red bubble. That more than anything scared the shit out of Brock. The kid still breathed or he wouldn't still bleed, but for how much longer? He could easily choke or suffocate...

"You do understand, your cooperation is all that guarantees his life."

"You do understand, he dies, you've got nothing on me."

Silence, a staring contest, Brock didn't blink.

The man considered Brock, looked at Clay. He didn't think they'd hurt the blonde to the point he'd die from his injuries. That hadn't been his intent. He needed him alive to continue manipulating the Seal. But, yeah crap...the blonde didn't look so good. Wasn't moving, was blowing blood bubbles, hell, was he even breathing?

With a flick of a limp wrist, he gave the goon permission to cut Clay loose from the chair. He did, not caring if he sliced skin as well as rope. Once free, Clay slid to the floor and didn't move. Brock started for him but was caught and held back.

"Let. Me. Help. Him." Brock wasn't usually moved to violence. That trait belonged to Sonny. But piss him off, push him too far, deny him Clay and it would get ugly very fast.

After a moment, he was released and allowed to approach and kneel beside Clay. Breath held, stomach in a knot, chest tight, Brock reached for Clay's left wrist, felt for a pulse, blinked tears away when he felt it, strong and steady - elbow still okay. _Hang in there kid, just hang in there!_

Blue eyes, murky and dull, slightly out of focus, blinked at him. Clay curled a lip, let his eyes close. Brock guessed it was supposed to be a grin, maybe a grimace, began to feel for broken bones; ankles, knee, thigh, belly, sides, chest, jaw, nose – found none.

He pried Clay's mouth open, inserted and felt with a finger, found the slit tongue, knew the source of the bleeding was neither serious nor life threatening. Imagined it probably felt like your tongue when you sliced it on a piece of hard candy, wondered if it did, made a mental note to ask Clay.

"Satisfied?"

Brock sat back on his heels. No, no he wasn't satisfied. He wanted Trent. He wanted Jason. He wanted back in the dark, dank room, alone with Clay. He wasn't able to think straight at the moment. What if the soldier who had been taken to coerce him into doing their captors bidding had been someone else? Someone he didn't know? Someone who didn't have the extensive training Clay did? Would Brock have caved as quickly if he hadn't known the man being hurt? Would he have caved sooner?

But it was Clay, and Brock did know him and that hurt. What if Clay had begged for the abuse to stop? What if he had told Brock to give them what they wanted? Asked for relief from the pain? What if Clay didn't have the ability to go deep and dissociate from reality? What if Trent was wrong all this time? How was Clay going to feel that Brock was responsible for his injuries?

Apparently, his discontent was obvious either on his face or in his body posture, perhaps both, because the man who was most likely in charge, the one who spoke the best English, decided to bargain with him.

"You go over the blueprints of the warehouse with us, show us how to avoid cameras, get in and out undetected, I'll let you help him."

"He comes first."

"It's not a negotiation."

"And you're running out of time." Brock stood up, hands on his hips. "They change security tonight, best time to hit the warehouse."

"You know that how?"

"I know that warehouse. How do you?"

Brock waited, mind spinning. By now, enough time had passed Jason would have either gotten permission or the unofficial okay to come looking for him. He would come, Brock had no doubt. Bravo still had no idea Clay was with him. Oh, there was a slim, slight possibility that wasn't true, but so doubtful, Brock wasn't even considering it.

"Back off. Just gimme a moment."

There were seven rebels in the room. There could easily be more in the house or outside. Bravo would come with their support team and Alpha, so that made….uh…..not all Bravo support would come. Jason would most likely only bring half. If things went south, Jason would depend on those he left behind to come after them. And if Bravo were roaming off base without official permission, Blackburn would be with them. How Jason would find him, Brock didn't know, just knew he would, he always did. He was Jason.

Clay lay on the floor as he'd fallen from the chair, drifted in and out of consciousness, awareness. He didn't try to move, wasn't going to until he had to. Was afraid if he did, his stomach would revolt and he was too tired and in too much pain to vomit any more. The taste in his mouth would not go away. He didn't want to swallow, so just let the blood and spit drool from split lips.

He wished briefly, oh so briefly, he would just pass out – really pass out, like dead to the world passed out. An escape from the constant pain and misery, but he didn't. Because he couldn't. He fought against it, struggled to bring his thoughts into some semblance of order. Brock was doing his best to remain strong and handle the situation. The most Clay could do was listen and try to help him by staying awake and preparing to run if Brock gave the order to do so.

He had no idea Brock would never do so. He didn't know the condition he was in scared Brock. He actually thought if he had to, he could gain his feet and run. He might need to lean on Brock a bit, let Brock support some of his weight, but Brock had told him to do just that, so Clay didn't think it would be an issue. The thought that Brock would run and leave him behind never entered his mind.

Brock was beside him, whispering in his ear, telling him to hang in there.

"You can't...help 'em." Clay panted. "B'ck…..no….." He didn't know about the warehouse or what they wanted from it, or what they wanted Brock to do, he just knew he couldn't be the reason Brock agreed. He tried to sit up, Brock reached to help him. "Don't."

"Sssh." Brock held him by the shoulders. "Gotta have faith kid. Know who our boss is?"

"Hasn't….come….yet." He wanted to collapse against Brock, feel the warmth of a hug, curl up on his lap.

Brock sighed. "He will." Somehow, someway. Jason knew about the warehouse, the change of the security detail. He even bet Jason knew where he was, guessed that tonight, Bravo would come. Had put it all together. "I know you hurt, I know you don't feel good. Go ahead and sleep now, but later, you're gonna hafta be ready, okay?"

Clay nodded, let the goon haul him to his feet but his knees wouldn't support his weight. When the goon made to toss Clay over his shoulder, Brock stopped him.

"If he can't walk, carry him." He ordered. "Give him some water, a wet towel."

The goon looked to the man in charge who nodded, approved the water and towels and another man set aside his rifle and stepped forward to lift Clay's feet off the floor. Together they carried Clay from the room.

"Now, shall we come up with our plan?"

Brock looked out the window. Damn, it was dark. How much time had passed? What time was it? Why hadn't they allowed him to study the blueprints and floor plans before this? Was he expected to go with them? Would he ever see Clay again?

Shaking off those morbid thoughts, he sat and while he planned a stealth attack, he waited for Bravo and prayed Clay didn't succumb to his injuries alone in the dank cellar.

"We go tonight at 2 a.m."

***000***

Brock wasn't startled by the explosion but instinct and training had him under the table by the time the window exploded from the force of the blast outside. The shouting began, the sound of rapid gun-fire followed. Automatic gunfire from a machine gun - probably Sonny. Running feet thudded through the house, then loud bangs and bright flashes of stun grenades, followed by smoke bombs. The inky darkness outside the window remained bright with light from a fire, another _THWUMP_ and a truck exploded, black smoke clogged the immediate area outside the window. Light faded away, shone bright, settled into a constant flicker.

Bravo was here.

Brock laid flat on his belly, judged the distance to the window. The door was hit with a heavy, loud thud. It groaned, but didn't give away. The two men in the room with Brock took up defensive positions, aimed their AK's at the door. Three more thumps and the door burst open, came right off its hinges, two men surged through, fired and both rebels were dead.

"BROCK!"

Brock stared at Derek, recognized him instantly. Ray was right behind him. Both greeted him by shouting his name, relief and emotion making their voices husky. Athan guarded the door. Brock rolled out from under the table, gained his feet, headed straight for Ray.

"BOSS!" Ray keyed his comms. "Got him. Alive and walking." He slung his rifle to one side, held his arms open to welcome Brock in a hard and hearty hug.

"Copy that. Rendezvous at the truck. You've got three minutes before Sonny lights up that house."

"Copy that. Three minutes." Derek replied.

Brock darted right past the outstretched arms. He was around Ray, past Derek, out the door. He pushed aside Athan and ran for the kitchen. He heard both Ray and Derek yelling after him, but he had one goal, one destination and it wasn't out the front door.

"The fuck?" Ray looked at Derek, whirled around and chased after Brock. "STOP!"

"DEREK?! RAY?!" Athan called, came running.

"BROCK!" Ray ran him down. "WE gotta get outta HERE!" He tackled Brock from behind. Nearly a week of limited food and water made Brock sluggish and he fell, sprawling on his belly, pounding a fist against the floor in frustration. "BROCK! The hell man?!"

"We gotta go!" Derek came running, bent down, grabbed an arm, Ray grabbed the other and together they hauled Brock to his feet, started for the door. "Sonny's gonna blow this place!"

"NO!" Brock struggled, digging his heels into the floor, slipped and slid across the tile as he was dragged away from the cellar door. A sharp elbow to Derek's gut gained Brock freedom on his right side. He slipped to his knees, taking Ray with him. He scrambled forward, tried to stand, fell, lunged for the door to the cellar.

"We GOTTA go!" Derek yelled again but Brock yanked the door open and fell through the doorway, rolling head over heels down the steps. "DAMMIT!" he stopped the chase to key in. "JASON! HOLD YOUR FIRE!"

"Come again?" Jason replied. "Derek, SAY AGAIN!"

"Don't blow it! I repeat! DON'T BLOW IT!" Derek followed Athan who followed Ray who followed Brock. All he heard back when he released his mic was static, didn't know if he'd gotten through to Jason or not.

Kenny and Karl entered the house, found and identified the room Brock had bolted from by the broken door and two dead men. Dried or not, they knew blood splatter when they saw it. And that was a pool of blood. Granted, not a huge puddle, but someone had definitely bled on the floor - and nowhere near either dead body. They looked at one another. Karl shrugged.

"WE'VE GOT A PROBLEM!" Karl heard Derek yell frantically into the comms. They were operating on an open channel so they could communicate with one other. "He ran from us. He just FUCKING ran into the CELLAR!"

Kenny saw the laptop, the blood splatter on the table, the chair, the cut ropes on the floor, swallowed hard as he judged the distance from the chair to the table. How hard had someone been hit to splatter blood that far?

Brock was alive and walking, so, if he wasn't hurt, who was? And who had been tied to the chair? Brock?

With a curse, Kenny turned and ran, followed the sounds of feet thudding on wooden steps and frantic shouts. "DEREK! DEREK!" He hit the open cellar door, jumped the steps, landed at the bottom, scurried down a dirt hallway. Brock was hurt and they didn't know it. "DEREK! RAY!"

Derek pulled up short, Brock, after throwing his weight against a door and failing to break it down or break through it, was on his knees, hands in the dirt, running along the wall, searching for something, still not talking or responding to Ray.

"BROCK! STOP!" Ray grabbed him by the shoulders, went down to his level. "STOP! JUST STOP!"

Brock blinked, finally saw who knelt in his personal space, was nose to nose with him.

"The KEY!" Brock yelled. "The KEY! Where's the KEY? I need the KEY! Do you see it?"

"TWO MINUTES!" Derek yelled, ready to grab Brock's arm and drag him towards the stairs.

 _A whistle, a thud, despite being under ground with no windows, the room brightened, the house shook. An outer wall cracked, a cloud of dust bloomed. The whole fucking foundation shifted._

"Give me a sec." Ray waved him back. "BROCK! This place is going to blow. WE have to GO!" He was well aware of Athan dancing agitatedly.

"CHRIST! WE HAVE TO GO!" Derek shouted. "NOW!"

"I'VE GOT TO GET HIM OUT!" Brock spun on his knees. "Where's the fucking KEY?"

"JASON!" Derek screamed into his comm. Nothing. Comms weren't transmitting from underground. "Athan, get topside, do whatever you have to, but call off the next strike. Do not let them blow up this house!"

Sonny had a rocket launcher and full permission to use it. Athan whirled and ran.

"NO!" Brock exploded. He flopped around, sat on his butt and kicked both feet at the door closest to the bottom hinge. "HE'S STILL IN THERE!"

"BROCK!?" Ray landed on top of him, knocked him flat on his back, sprawled on him, held Brock's head still with both hands. "Who Brock? Who's in there you'll risk your life for? RISK MINE?!"

"LET ME GO!"

"BROCK! Sonny has a rocket launcher! He has permission to blow every fucking building here!" Ray was bucked off, hit the ground on his hip, scrambled right back across Brock's chest. "WE have to go NOW!" Brock slugged him, he staggered, shook it off. It hadn't been a hard punch, Brock's attention was on the door.

"WE CAN"T!" Brock kicked again and again and again. "WE CAN'T!" And he kicked.

"Why not?" Ray grabbed Brock, gave him a shake, then a harder shake. Was ready to have Derek knock him out and let Kenny and Karl carry him out.

"HE'S IN THERE!"

"WHO?" Ray yelled in Brock's face. "WHO BROCK? WHO'S BEHIND THAT DOOR?"

"CLAY!" His chest heaved, he gulped. "I CAN'T LOSE HIM NOW! NOT AFTER EVERYTHING! NOT LIKE THIS! I CAN'T!"

A brief moment of silence, Brock sat, breathing hard, then resumed kicking. Derek didn't hear what Brock had said, but whatever it was, Ray was throwing his body against the door. How the fuck Clay was held captive in fucking Syria when he was home in fucking Virginia? He threw his shoulder against the door again and again and again. Maybe Brock was hysterical, maybe he'd suffered a mental break, he was definitely frantic but all Ray could think was; Jason had questioned what would make Brock cooperate.

Clay would definitely do that.

Karl, didn't question it or hesitate, positioned himself opposite Ray, Brock between them still kicking, threw his weight at the door.

 _A whistle, a thud, despite being under ground with no windows, the room brightened, the house shook. An outer wall buckled, a cloud of dust bloomed. The whole fucking foundation cracked._

 _ _An earth jarring vibration rocked the men on their feet, Ray staggered, Karl stumbled as the dirt floor heaved, cracked, the split in the earth ran beneath the door.__

"NO!" Brock cried. Did the room on the other side of the door still stand? "NO!"

Derek and Kenny took turns against the door. Even if Athan stopped the next launch, the fire would soon spread to this house - it was wood.

()

His comm wasn't transmitting, so Athan ran like he'd never run before. He was fast, agile, able to leap as he ran without breaking stride. Took the steps to the main floor in two leaps. He loved to run, but never had he had to make a run like this before. Never before, had the lives of his fellow friends and brothers depended on how fast he ran.

He knew what hill Bravo perched on to blow up one building after another. It was part of the plan; as soon as Brock was reported found, his location identified, whether or not the remaining buildings were cleared of hostiles, Bravo support and Alpha were to pull back and Sonny was cleared to fire.

Chaos reigned in the dark. Two buildings were blown off their foundations, the rubble burned, the fire was spreading. The rebels were either dead or taken alive. Gun fire erupted now and again, proving some rebels remained at large. If they weren't blown to hell, Bravo support was tasked with rounding them up.

"STOP! STOP!" Athan rounded the corner, skidded to a halt. "Don't FIRE! Hold your FIRE!"

"The fuck Athan!" Eric demanded. Comms had been spotty, a lot of static interfered with transmission, but he was damned sure he'd heard Ray report to Jason that Brock had been found, alive and walking.

"They're still inside the house!" Athan panted. "That one!" He pointed, the fire was spreading quickly. "He….won't….leave." He bent over, hands on his knees. "Ran….to…the..cel….lar." He was winded, the hill steeper than it looked.

"Who?" Sonny shouldered the rocket launcher, sited in. Trent and Jason were nowhere in sight.

"Brock!"

Sonny and Eric bolted, Eric shouting into his comm for Jason as he ran. Athan swallowed, ran after them. The fire had spread from the exploded buildings to ones nearby, everything would burn, more fuel tanks would explode. There was no stopping the progress of the fire.

They thundered onto the porch, met Jason and Trent in the kitchen, ran for the stairs that led into the cellar. Came upon the scene of Brock on his ass, kicking a busted plank in a huge wood door that Derek, Ray, Kenny and Karl were taking turns throwing themselves against, alternating a kick every now and then.

"Stand back!" Sonny had an ax, where he got it, no one asked. Derek, Ray, Kenny and Karl, winded, sore and bruised, stepped aside, let Sonny savagely attack the door with quick, repeated blows while they caught their breath. When the blade wedged in the wood, he yanked it free, slung it over his head and landed another blow.

Jason picked Brock up off the floor, hugged him tight, Brock hugged him back, let his head lay on his boss's shoulder, took the comfort that was offered. Jason began to pat him down, running his hands down Brock's back, his shoulders, his arms, his neck, dug his fingers through his hair. Brock clung tight, they went forehead to forehead, savoring the moment.

"You good? Tell me you're good! Talk to me!" Jason demanded. "Brock? Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?"

The door, under the repeated onslaught of fresh, un-bruised shoulders from Eric and Trent who were waging war against it, finally began to shimmy under their blows. The cloud of dust and crumbled mortar hung heavily, made both breathing and seeing hard but three whacks later, Sonny was through the door, and Jason was hugging air - Brock was gone.

"Fire is at the front door!" Athan shouted down the steps. "MOVE IT! You'll have to go out the back door! Let's go!"

So, it wasn't just dust filling the air, it was smoke as well.

"GET HIM OUT." Kenny ordered, he was coughing. "MOVE IT BROCK! The FIRE is HERE!"

Eric doubled over, hands on his knees, gulped for his breath, inhaled smoke and dust, indulged in a coughing fit. Derek and Karl were kicking split wood on the door, making the hole Sonny had hacked in the door, bigger.

"JASON!?" Brock yelled. He was light-headed, weak in the knees, was afraid he'd drop Clay if he tried to pick him up on his own.

Jason instantly responded.

"BOSS!" Ray yelled, made a swipe to grab Jason, missed, tried again. "JASON!" This time he caught Jason's hand. "JACE! WAIT!"

But Jason either didn't hear him or didn't understand, he yanked free and was through the hole in the door without hesitation. Ray punched the wall with the heel of his fist in frustration. Flashlights shone through the hole from the hallway, Jason saw the camo clad legs that Brock knelt beside, shielding the man's face and chest against his own body.

"I've got him!" Jason yelled. "Get….." He'd juggled the man's weight away from Brock, looked down and despite the dim light, the shadows, the clouds of dust, the lingering smoke. Despite the swelling, the bruising, the dried blood, the dirt and caked dust and grime….he knew. He just knew.

His eyes locked with Brock's whose were wild and wide. Brock's face confirmed it.

"TRENT!" Jason bellowed.

Trent jumped, startled at the bellow of anger and anguish from within the room. As he bolted through the hole, his only thought was Brock…..God, please let him be okay, don't let him be...…he stopped so abruptly, his weight propelled him forward, he fell to his knees, palms hit the dirt floor, skidded from the force he landed with, kept his chin from cracking the dirt by a mad scramble.

A third man?

Brock was on his knees, head down, coughing. Jason was on his knees, hugging - _hugging?_ \- a heavy weight in his arms.

"No." Trent stuttered, coughed. He shook his head, he knew those dirty, matted curls. "NO!"

"Best way to move him?" Jason asked. They'd deal with whatever this was when they were out of this house and away from immediate danger.

Trent took ten seconds to check for broken bones, palpate Clay's stomach, back and chest, motioned it was okay for Jason to rise with Clay.

"WATCH HIS LEFT ARM!" Brock choked, then braced his weight on his palms as Trent helped Jason stand, easily took Clay's feet and helped Jason carry him over to the door.

"COMING OUT!" Trent yelled, his experienced finger searched for the pedal pulse in Clay's bare foot, found it, gulped in relief the kid was alive. He knew that, he did, knew it when he checked the kid over for obvious injury, but still, felt good to feel that little throb under his finger. "Little HELP here!"

"MOVE!" Athan yelled. "DAMMIT! MOVE! WE'VE GOT TO GO!"

Sonny and Eric reached blindly through the door, expected Brock, were stunned to see Trent back out, two bare feet in his hands. Sonny shrugged, coughing, took one foot, Eric the other. Jason came out, refused to let Sonny take the mans weight from his arms. Trent turned around, accepted Ray's help with Brock, who weaker than the rest of the men, was struggling to breathe, succumbing to the dust and smoke.

Another explosion shook the house, rocked everyone's balance, they teetered and tottered, shifted their weight to keep their feet.

"MOVE!" Athan howled. "NOW!"

Flashlights from Kenny, Karl and Derek flashed between the man held by the three men from Bravo and through the hole in the door.

Sonny blinked, his knees buckled and nearly dumped him to the floor - and not from the recent explosion. One hand held a foot, the other reached for the nearest wall, blindly groping for support, found a hand holding a flashlight, redirected its beam to the man he, Eric and Jason held.

"No."


	6. Chapter 6

Again, my usual – medical inconsistencies.  
I didn't realize how long this story was! I think this is going to end up being one of the longest I've ever done. Someone asked me if my stories were all short – best answer? Yes! Because I can't remember what I wrote two chapters ago, so I constantly have to reread.  
Aaah well, almost done, one more chapter after this should do it.

* * *

"Yes." Someone answered.

"No." Sonny repeated, voice rising.

"Yes." Ray had Brock's arm around his shoulder, held his hand, Trent was on Brock's other side. They were already on the stairs. "MOVE!"

"NO!" Sonny stared at the bare foot in his hand, the bruised, swollen, misshapen, crooked, black and red toes. _**"NO!"**_

"YES!" Trent was halfway up the stairs, leading Brock, Ray behind them, still sharing the support of Brock's weight with Trent. "Watch his left arm!"

"Tell me NO, dammit! **Tell me this is not Clay!" Sonny roared. "THIS CAN'T BE CLAY!"**

"PULL IT TOGETHER!" Jason ordered. "GOGOGOGO!"

Sonny went, blinded by smoke, rage - tears. Christ, he hoped to hell he wasn't hurting the kid, jouncing him around as he and Eric hit the steps and alternated taking them two at a time. It made their gait uneven and knocked a foot, knee, hip against the railing, made Clay bounce in Jason's arms.

Trent pulled Brock off the last step and through the door into the kitchen, Ray was just stepping off and Sonny and Eric were halfway up, Jason on the third step from the bottom, when _; thud, the house shook. An outer wall caved then crumbled, a cloud of dust choked-out all visual and the ability to breathe. The whole fucking foundation heaved,_ _vibrated, split – walls buckled, the ceiling cracked_.

Either the house listed sideways, or everyone within it lost their complete ability to stand upright and straight. The sound of glass blowing out of windows deafened the sound of the wooden staircase separating from the wall, floor, whatever supported it. It tilted sideways, throwing everyone off balance. Jason, carrying the most weight, fell hard against the railing, hip taking the brunt of his weight…..it wasn't about letting go of Clay or risk falling off the stairs…fall he would, because the staircase was falling…at least he would cushion Clay's fall.

His mind refused to wrap around the fact that they would then be trapped in the cellar with no time to find another way to get out.

His shins hit the step, dropped him to his knees, he was going backwards and to his left but he kept his hold on Clay, would land on his side, Clay in his arms.

"JASON!" Hands were on his ass, pushing him forward and up the steps, Kenny and Karl supported the staircase from below and Derek pushed him from behind. The added boost and the pull of the lunge from Sonny and Eric had Jason up the stairs and through the door with Clay still in his arms, Derek on his ass, even if the momentum landed them all on the floor in a tangled heap.

"COME ON!" Athan urged, waving, the back door open. "COME ON! COME ON!"

Karl came through the door, followed by Kenny and a cloud of dust as the staircase fell into the cellar. Kenny scooped up the rocket launcher Sonny had dropped in a hallway, eyed Sonny who wasn't paying him or the rocket launcher one whit of attention, then ran.

Wow, he thought as he high-tailed it out of the house, Sonny willingly giving up the authorized use of a grenade-throwing rocket launcher to level every building in sight, to stay with his teammates said a lot about the hot-headed, violence-prone Seal. He shook if off, headed to the hill Sonny and Eric had abandoned. When Bravo and Alpha were clear, not a house, not a building, no vehicle, not even a bike would remain.

He'd see to it.

Once out of the house, the convey transport truck was waiting. Ray easily jumped the tailgate, reached for Brock who Trent and Karl boosted his way with little care. Trent then vaulted over the tailgate and turned to take Clay from Jason. Sonny and Eric were still climbing aboard, Ray taking Clay's legs, halfway over the tailgate when the truck grinded gears and rumbled ahead, gaining speed as gears shifted. Jason had to jog to catch it, stood on the bumper, gave Derek and Karl the thumbs up then climbed in, Ray let the canvas drop, pulled the ties tight.

Alpha and Bravo support were left behind to deal with the aftermath.

Trent didn't want to show panic, didn't want to show any emotion at all, didn't want to upset the guys, but he'd been thrown off his calm and steady rock finding Clay with Brock. He had questions, revenge to plan, someone's ass to kick, a search and rescue Marine unit to find and put in the hospital – Eric had said that Bravo couldn't engage in another fist-fight with Charlie, it hadn't been stated other teams were off-limits.

Now, though….right now mattered and what mattered, was Clay.

Clay was lifted, laid on his back, held down carefully. Flashlights flicked on, Trent cut Clay's shirt off, so soiled and dirty its print and design was no longer identifiable. Trent was quick, fingers steady, pressing, poking, pinching as he felt Clay over, searching for injuries:

Shallow, bleeding nicks on his wrists. Consistent with restraints being cut free from a knife – not serious.  
Road rash on a shoulder - not serious.  
Bruises rapidly forming on his chest, belly, sides, shoulder – could be serious.  
Fist-sized red marks on his chest, belly, sides, shoulder – so-so serious.  
Cut beneath one eye, deep, and despite caked with dried blood and dirt, still oozed blood, if sluggishly – not serious.  
Swollen jaw, split lips, black eye, nose double in size – nothing broken.  
No teeth missing or loose. Tongue slit, bleeding but intact.  
No lumps or bumps or swelling on his head, hidden by his hair – good.  
No violent reaction from pushing against his belly – great.  
No stab wounds, no gunshot wounds – excellent.  
Pulse strong, breathing not restricted, though he was panting – whew.  
All in less than a minute.

"BROCK?" Trent's movements were quick and efficient, just under frantic, he wasn't prepared for this. "You good? You need me?"

"I'm good….." He answered, swallowed hard, coughed. His chest was tight, throat thick but he didn't know if it were from the smoke and dust or because he hadn't seen Clay since they carried him from the room after the severe beating and he had no idea how long ago that had been. "How is he?"

"Working on it." Trent muttered. "So far, better than I expected." Seeing Clay on that dirt floor, barely recognizable, he'd thought the worst.

Eric sat beside Brock on the wood bench bolted to the floor. This was a truck arranged by Lisa, so Eric fumbled under the seats, had to bend over and hang his head, but he found what he knew he would.

"Here." He uncapped a bottle of water. "Sip, don't gulp." He shook a blanket out, stood up, swayed with the motion of the truck, shook it out, draped in around Brock's shoulders. "You hurt?"

Brock shook his head, clutching corners of the blanket together with one hand, taking repeated, frequent sips of water with the other.

"You sure?" Eric snapped his fingers to gain Brock's attention. "Hey, stay with me." The only cover they had was the tarp and while they were protected from the night air, any weather and the worse of the sand, the drive was loud. "Talk to me Brock, where are you hurt? Hey, I hate to push, I do, but Trent's gonna need you to talk to him. He needs to know about Clay. Now, where are you hurt?"

Brock, shaking his head, was slow to realize that Eric probably couldn't see him, which accounted for the panicked tone.

"I'm good." He swallowed more water. Eric uncapped a bottle of blue Gatorade, exchanged it for the empty bottle Brock held out. "They didn't hurt me." He laid his head back. There was no wall, so his head rested against a metal rod the canvas was tied to. "They didn't have to, they had Clay."

Eric nodded, looked away, pursed his lips, turned them in, ran a hand over his face, patted Brock's knee. No real answer for that comment, so he remained silent.

"Did you know?" Brock asked suddenly. "Did Jason?"

Eric hesitated, knew what Brock was asking but now was not the time to talk about what had happened. Brock might think he was fine, but the doctor would be the one who convinced Eric that he was – physically that is. Mentally and emotionally would take time.

"Did you know?" Brock asked again, a bite to his tone. "Dammit Blackburn, did you know?"

"No." Eric met Brock's look. "As far as we knew, he was still home in Virginia. He's supposed to be, he should be. I don't know why he's not."

It was Brock's turn to be quiet. That admission made him suddenly feel so much better. Some part of him must have tucked away the belief that Bravo had willingly agreed to send the kid on the search mission to find him with the Marines. Buried deep was a thought that since Bravo couldn't search, they would have agreed to let Clay. Or Clay had demanded to go and Bravo had said okay.

Now that he could think somewhat clearly, he knew, without a doubt, there was no way in hell, Jason ever would have agreed to such a plan. He hated letting that kid out of his sight, no way would he ever agree to turn Clay over to another team so soon after the shit-show with Charlie.

"Were any of them taken alive?"

"Yes."

"If one of them is a big goon, he doesn't live to see dawn." Brock looked over at Trent.

Eric understood, Brock didn't have to say it. The goon was responsible for whatever injuries Clay had. Eric sighed, so far, Sonny was holding it together and Jason hadn't punched anything, but tension was high, stress levels were elevated, moods would soon turn violent.

"I'll contact Alpha One." Eric agreed. If there was a goon among the captives, he would have him separated and secluded until Bravo had time to calm down.

Recalling Brock's warning about Clay's left arm, Trent gently took hold of his wrist, so far, so good. Clay didn't like it, tensed with a whimper, but didn't try and pull away…...Everyone in the truck jolted, jerked when Clay screamed: Eric came to his feet. Ray and Sonny, on their feet, abruptly went to their knees. Jason spun around so quickly, he lost his balance, fell against Sonny, who, too stunned to brace his boss's weight, toppled into Ray and all three sprawled on the floor.

Brock sighed, drank Gatorade. "Told you to watch his left arm." He rubbed his forehead, coughed, didn't find it any easier to breathe.

Clay jerked with a cry, half sitting up, kicking out, a knee-jerk reaction. He howled when his injured foot banged against the floor. Clay had let Trent feel his shoulder, his arm twice before, but Trent hadn't tried to make him move it or straighten it out until now.

"Well, shit." Trent muttered. "Okay, okay, kid, sorry." He leaned across Clay, hand on his right shoulder, smacked Brock's leg with the back on his hand to gain his attention. "Can you talk to me?" He felt for a pulse in Clay's left wrist, found it, was happy. "Someone hold his foot!"

"Yeah."

"What can you tell me?" Trent tore a package open with his teeth, removed a plastic stick with candy on one end, repeatedly nudged Clay's lips, tickled under his chin to gain his cooperation. "Hey, take this."

"Don't touch his left arm."

"Bit late for that." Sonny sat on his ankles, Clay's injured foot cradled between his thighs. "That there, is some swollen toes."

"Pretty much his whole foot is swollen." Ray corrected with a wince. "Christ."

Clay wanted no part of anything in his mouth, pressed his lips together, buried his face against whosever thigh was closest. When Trent pursued him, Jason pushed him off. Trent shook his head, reached to grab his chin and forced him to look up.

"Lollipop, you remember this. Just suck on it," he told Clay. "Open up."

Clay reluctantly opened his mouth, accepted the offering. The last time he'd been forced to do this, he'd been rewarded with the taste of steel and a cut tongue. This time though, the touch was gentle, not abrasive, the intrusion not brutal. The taste wasn't awful, maybe berry, but wasn't sweet either. It roamed around his mouth, under and on his tongue, along his gums, the roof of his mouth, finally came to a rest against his right cheek…..where Trent left it.

When he raised a hand to remove it, his hand was gently caught, squeezed, held. "Leave it." He was told. Right, the doc had introduced him to this – these – whatever, last time he'd been in the infirmary.

"What the hell?" Sonny questioned. "The hell is that?"

"Fentanyl." Trent replied. "Brock?" He hated to push, but if Brock could tell him how Clay got some of his injuries, it might help calm everyone's frayed nerves. They all were still processing Clay wasn't home in Virginia where they'd left him, had found him with Brock, so might not.

Sonny frowned, must be his ability to remember and recall and identify items, objects and events was on the fritz in his cross-wired brain, 'cause try as he might, he simply could not, in all his years in the Navy, remember ever having seen pain meds on a stick.

"Since when?" Sonny had to focus on something that wasn't a bruised, bloody, possibly broken Clay whose swollen foot with broken toes was cradled between his thighs. "What, you just carry them with you?"

"Do now." Trent replied simply.

"He dislocated his elbow jumping from a moving truck." Brock said. "I popped it back. If there were any other injures from that fall, he didn't tell me and I don't know about them."

"I saw them, all minor." Trent replied.

"Was he with it at all?" Jason asked.

"Couple times. They, uh, gave him a tranquilizer because he fought going with them and didn't go under from ether."

"Same one on you?" Ray asked.

Brock shook his head. "I went with them willingly."

"Why?" Ray asked.

Jason gave Ray a hard nudge, a warning to dial it down and back off.

"Live feed of guns trained on Sonny."

Eric winced. Now was not the time for this discussion, god-dammit!

"He come out of it okay?" Trent asked. Doubted it.

"Rough." Brock didn't need to go into detail. Trent nodded.

"How long has he been with you?" Ray asked.

Brock closed his eyes. Eric, who had at some time, sat back down, felt Brock slump beside him. "I dunno. The cellar was dark, I didn't have a watch, they brought water and food a couple times, he didn't like the soup. I…..." He coughed. "I didn't…..."

Trent cut him off for three reasons: 1) Brock didn't need to recall memories of captivity right the fuck now and 2) he was more worried about Clay's injuries than how long he'd been with Brock which led to 3) Brock was having a hard time breathing and his energy was better spent telling Trent about Clay, not captivity.

"What did they break his toes with?" Trent asked.

Break? They were broken? Sonny growled, hands fisted. Okay, yeah, sure. He'd only gotten a quick look in a room choked with dust and smoke, lit by flashlights as he took possession of a foot through a hole in a door, but even though the toes were swollen and crooked, black and blue, broken hadn't come to mind. No, wait...he knew they were broken. Man, this was hard.

"He had a baton. Steel maybe, don't think it was wood."

Aah, the goon. Eric thought.

"Was it collapsible?" Trent asked, ready to bundle the kid in a blanket and offer him to the first set of arms that reached for him. He'd checked Clay's legs once in the room, once here in the truck, hadn't felt any broken bones and Clay hadn't flinched, still…. "Anything else?" He asked Brock. "Legs okay?" He'd rather not cut Clay's pants off here in the truck, but if he had to, he would. Had before, would again, there was always a next time and it would come.

"No." Brock swallowed, tasted bile, the water sloshed in his belly, but he kept it down and slid off the bench to sit on the floor next to Trent. "They….he….uh…..the…" He pushed at his hair, coughed, tasted smoke, he needed a shower. "Hit him…" He reached for the button on Clay's pants, his hand shook and his fingers wouldn't work, refused to grasp the zipper, so Trent did it for him, a million thoughts zapping through his head – none of them good. "Same leg he hurt before…threatened to break his leg…..thigh…..think he cudda done it." He kept coughing, making Trent frown. He didn't like that.

Break a femur with repeated blows from a solid, steel baton? Sonny growled, Jason glared, Eric looked ill, Trent paled. Yeah, it could be done, but it would take hard, repeated blows with some serious strength behind them, would hurt like hell, likely puncture the skin from the force of the blows and even with surgery, would likely never heal correctly.

Trent easily tugged Clay's pants from his hips. Again, like when it had been Brock doing the same thing, Clay didn't move, protest or attempt to stop him. Brock swallowed hard, the same feeling enveloping him as before when he'd done this…..Clay felt safe and secure because he knew – somehow knew – who he was with.

Trent had no intention of taking Clay's pants off, not wanting to work his injured foot through the pant leg. Clay hadn't reacted when he'd once-over him in the cellar or seconds ago here in the truck, so he had to see what his leg looked like because Brock thought he should. He'd cut them off if he had to but Clay didn't fight him, didn't flinch away or kick at Sonny, just lay still and let Trent do what he wanted.

Ray, Sonny and Eric shone flashlights. The truck hit a bump, braked, jerked forward. Clay groaned, ending on a whimper, head on the hard, dirty floor. Hands reached to hold him still, prevent him from sliding or rolling.

"Fuck." Trent muttered, sitting back. He kept his hands on his thighs, wouldn't do to let the team know he didn't like the look of what they all saw…Clay's knee swollen over twice its normal size, gave way to a swollen bruise….still forming and coloring, it would only get worse. With the extensive swelling of his thigh and black bruising, it was possible a bone somewhere had at least been cracked. Then again, with no ice to help, it might look worse than it actually was. Either way, it was going to be painful for weeks.

Trent decided not to panic, the dim light in the back of an open, moving truck was not the place to guess how serious Clay's injuries might be.

"Not good." Eric said handing him a blanket, Trent shook his head, taking it. Wasn't worth cutting his boxer briefs off here in the truck just to see how far up his thigh the bruising and swelling went.

"Someone pick him up." He shook the blanket out as Jason and Sonny carefully lifted and held Clay off the floor. Ray helped Trent spread the blanket out on the floor, Jason and Sonny put Clay down on it and Trent wrapped it around him. The blanket – God Bless Lisa – easily covered Clay completely.

He didn't have to ask 'who wants him'? Jason had him, held him so he wasn't tossed about on the floor during the drive, held the stick in his mouth for him so the candy blob of fentanyl would continue to dissolve.

Trent - Clay, as tended and comfortable as Trent could make him, adjusted the blanket around Brock's shoulders, pulled him into a hug.

"He'll be okay." Trent assured him, knew his words wouldn't be believed or accepted so soon, but still, Brock needed to hear them. "Gonna be a hard couple days, but he's okay."

Brock nodded, stayed on the floor with Trent, just stared at Clay who, within the confines of Jason's arms, settled on his side. Clay safe in Jason's arms, Trent there to take care of him, Brock began to fade. He was tired and he hurt and breathing was hard and he kept coughing. He wasn't alone anymore…...no need to stay awake and worry and fuss, it was okay to let his team do it.

"Why the lollipop?" Eric asked. "Used in the field, I know, but usually you prefer morphine for him."

"Take the edge off, not enough to make him throw a reaction." Trent held Clay's injured foot in his lap, Sonny had taken a seat on the bench. "You know his tolerance of pain, his reluctance to take pain meds, his almost immediate response to the wrong dosage. Doc tries anything."

Huh, Clay was content to lie still and let Trent hold his foot, touch his toes, even bend his knee and push his leg towards his chest, but touch his arm and he was screaming, heel of his free foot banging the floor.

"Okay, okay." Jason shushed him, jiggling him back into his arms after he'd pulled free and sat up. "Easy, sssh…it's okay. You're okay." He shot Trent a look; mixture of, 'I can't believe you just did that', 'you dumb ass, why'd you do that', 'what's wrong with him, he'd react like that'.

"Yeah, he doesn't like that." Brock roused, he was shaking, the blanket clutched tight. He couldn't stop and his teeth wanted to chatter. Sonny was behind him, gently took him by the shoulders and pulled him back between his knees. Brock didn't resist, but didn't relax either. "Think we found the pain he can't shake off." He slumped against Sonny who leaned forward to peer into his face.

"Trent!" Sonny called.

Trent leaned across Clay, foot still in his lap, to slap Brock's knee. He jostled Clay's foot into one hand, going up on his knees to feel the pulse in Brock's neck, pried open one eyelid while Eric shone a light.

"Adrenaline crash." Trent announced. "He's okay, just fainted."

"Christ, this ain't fucking right." Sonny muttered, holding Brock's weight. "He doesn't need this shit."

Jason held the lollipop for Clay because either the medication had started to work or he'd passed out because his jaw was slack. Trent held Clay's foot and Sonny held Brock steady with his knees. The rest of the ride passed in silence, other than a whine or moan or whimper from Clay when the truck jerked or hit a pothole or turned sharply.

Finally they pulled up in front of the ER doors. A staff was waiting with two gurneys. As soon as the truck slowed, hands were reaching for the tailgate, pulling on the ties that secured the canvas. Clay was whisked away from Jason and the staff was running, pushing the gurney through the doors. Brock came around and got out of the truck on his own, tried to wave off the gurney but Jason ordered him to get on it and he complied.

Bravo wearily trudged after the staff who were long gone. They were shown to what was probably a waiting room, and the waiting began.

***000***

Jason was on his phone, had already dialed.  
Eric was on his phone, chanting for whomever to pick up already.  
Jason disconnected, hit another number.  
Eric picked up public phone – he didn't fucking care it was an unsecured line, dialed a number, held both.  
Jason cursed, scrolled through his numbers and hit another.  
Eric cursed, disconnected his cell and hit a speed dial.  
Trent called his wife.

"Black op, off record, my ass!" Eric yelled into the public phone. "I don't need clearance for an op involving the retrieval of one of my own men or the deployment of another!"

Eric put the public phone receiver against his chest, spoke into his cell phone. Trent had connected, motioned for Sonny to get a phone.

*Stella saw Jason's number pop up on her phone. Chose to ignore it. Whatever he wanted, could wait. She was in an important meeting, Clay was home – well, on base and out of contact, but in Virginia.  
*Betty saw her husband's number pop up on her phone, stopped what she was doing, took the call; as far as she knew, Clay was with Adam on base, but out of daily contact.  
*Janine answered Trent on the first ring; yes, Clay had called her; he was on base with Adam and would be out of contact until further notice.

"Call Adam." Trent ordered Sonny at the same time Eric tossed his cell and started barking orders into the public phone, rattling off a command code that guaranteed him access to anything he wanted to know.

Sonny got Adam who, after a moment, apologized he couldn't give Sonny the information he was seeking.

"Can you give it to Blackburn?" Sonny handed the phone to Eric, who juggled three phones, spoke into Sonny's. He gave an authorization code to Adam, listened, hung up, gave the phone back to Sonny. Still held the other two phones.

"Clay left base on orders of Admiral Chariss." Eric told them. "Black op mission. Adam has no further detail."

"So he doesn't know where Clay is, but we do." Ray massaged his forehead. "This is fucked up. No one at home knows he's not on base."

"Black op?" Jason echoed. "What the…..? And I wasn't told?" And he knew why, oh fuck, he knew why. "When?"

"The day Brock disappeared." Trent added. "He told Janine he'd be out of contact, she hasn't heard from him since."

Eric spoke into the public phone, got the information he sought and slammed it down so hard, it cracked and the cord fell to the table top.

"Clay flew out with the Marine unit from Quantico on a search and rescue mission for a missing American Soldier." Eric clasped his hands behind his head. "He wasn't told who he was going after. Or where. Adam doesn't even know."

"We do." Sonny huffed. "They sent him after Brock, knowing they were teammates on Bravo."

And Eric just confirmed it. SONOFABITCH! Jason was ready to explode. Clay had been sent after Brock and hadn't even known who he was looking for. Black op because you didn't send a teammate after a teammate. And he hadn't been told because he never would have allowed Clay to be used that way.

"So, he went after Brock and didn't even know it." Jason kicked a chair, swiped every last cup of coffee – empty or full – to the floor.

"Why didn't we hear another soldier – Seal – went missing?" Trent asked quietly.

"Black op." Eric sighed. "It was reported, but not at our level. The Marine unit Clay came with is still actively seeking both."

Trent got up to pace. "No wonder they wouldn't let us meet up with that unit."

"Because they didn't want us to know, right?" Sonny chewed on a coffee stir stick. "Didn't want us to know they sent the kid, didn't have the balls to tell us they lost the kid."

"Jason, what…" Eric began as one thing after another came off Jason's body and hit the floor, was thrown at the wall, into a chair, across the room. Soon, Jason wore only his shirt and pants. Gloves, vest, backpack, night vision goggles, holster, ammo clips, anything and everything he carried was strewn across the room.

Eric let him pace, allowed him to kick chairs, trash the magazine rack, upend the jigsaw puzzle, scatter the toy box, hoped it would be enough for him to get it out.

Yeah, no. It wasn't.

Jason banged a fist against the wall. "Dammit Eric! We left him home! He is supposed to be _home_! Home in Virginia! Not here in the fucking Syrian desert!" He whirled, paced, punched the wall, squatted down, held his head, shot to his feet. "Why isn't he _there_? How the _fuck_ did this happen?"

"The Navy doctor cleared him to return to duty." Eric didn't like it any more than Jason did. "No way was command going to let a soldier with his skills sit home when a Tier One operative was taken captive."

"They had no problem letting four of them sit idle _right_ here." Ray pointed out angrily.

Eric shrugged, hands out….not his decision, not his call.

"Fat lot of good it did sending someone with Clay's level of training and skills." Trent remarked. "They got him too."

"Where is this crack Marine team that not only didn't find Brock, but managed to lose our kid in the process?" Sonny asked. "I've some things I'd like to say to them."

Eric stared, Sonny being so calm and quiet was scaring the shit out of him.

"Why didn't we know about it?" Jason demanded, reverting back to the Black op information. "This is bullshit. Jesus Christ! Why does everyone think they can do whatever they want with that kid? He's not theirs, he's ours! Why does no one get that?" He headed for the door, one goal on his mind. Ray bravely – or stupidly, moved to block his exit from the room.

"Get out of my way."

"Where are you going?"

"I have a Marine unit from Quantico to find."

"Not without me." Sonny stood up. "Trent, anyone coming soon to tell us anything?"

"Not likely."

"We'll be back."

"You're not going anywhere." Eric spoke up. "Shut up and sit down, both of you."

They sat, but neither one shut up.

Since it was still before dawn, the cafeteria wasn't open, so Ray went to ask one of the nurses if there was a nearby restaurant or café that might be open 24 hours. There was, and it delivered. She dialed for him and he ordered egg sandwiches, coffee, donuts, croissants and crepes.

The delivery man was there within 10 minutes and that's when Ray realized he had no local currency to pay the man with and he didn't take American cash. The same nurse smiled, paid the delivery man, took Ray's cash and waved him on his way.

"Jason!" Lisa came through the door, Mandy behind her. "Where is he? Trent, is he alright? Any news?"


	7. Chapter 7

So ends another one!  
Until next inspiration! Hope you all enjoyed it.  
I'm enjoying Season Two, it's off to a great start, here's looking at you Mexico.

* * *

Eric recalled the curious looks, side glances and outright stares he and the team had received as they'd trailed through the hospital hallways on their way to a waiting room. Eyes lingered as they passed, yeah, he could see where he and his men were intimidating.

They appeared larger than they actually were with all their gear and equipment on. They were dirty, soiled, smoky and smelly. People didn't usually ever see a Seal Team in full tactical gear sitting still or even indoors. Seals appeared and melted away in the blink of an eye, usually in the dark - because officially, they were never there.

Eric was relieved there were no other people in the waiting room, wondered if it were intentional on behalf of the hospital staff. Whatever, he was grateful they were alone because when Lisa sailed into the room, demanding answers, she wasn't alone. McCall and two other men of high rank followed Mandy into the room. Oh shit, here we go.

"Chief Hayes," McCall began. "This is…."

"Get out!" Jason growled, the table between him and the three men. "I don't want you here."

Eric really wished McCall would have called him before coming to the hospital. He would have told him to stay away. Emotions were too volatile, the knowledge that Bravo had found Clay with Brock still too raw to process or accept.

"Hayes," McCall tried again.

"You had no right!" Jason shouted, pointed at him. "No right to send him on that rescue mission! None. He safe at home! We left him there for a reason!"

"It wasn't my call."

"Make it your call!"

"I can't do that!"

"You didn't have the balls to even tell us!"

"By the time I knew…!" McCall paused, sighed. "I sent you out there, didn't I? Let you look for them?"

"And now we know why!" Jason's fist banged on the table, "Who sent him? Tell me, 'cause trust me, heads are gonna roll."

"That is not the way to handle this." McCall looked to Eric for help, got none. "Proper channels Hayes."

"Yeah, and look where that got us."

"The proper procedures..." began one of the men.

"Didn't work." Jason spat. "Who found Brock? Huh? Who? Your crack Marine unit?"

"They would have, yes. They were close to..."

"Before or after someone died?" Jason was livid. "If you're not going to tell me what Marine unit he was sent with, get out the hell outta my sight. I don't want to see you anymore."

"HEY! Someone talk to me!" Lisa demanded, swallowed hard. "Is he in surgery? Is that it? It's that bad?"

"Davis." Sonny began. Trent pulled out a chair from the table as Jason and McCall exploded into a bang-your-fist-on-the-table shouting match.

"He's not…you got there in time….right? Athan said…."

"Just what did Athan say?" Eric asked.

"That you were en route to the hospital via truck." Mandy answered.

"That's all he said?"

"Davis." Sonny got up, took her hand, pushed her into the chair. Trent put his hands on her shoulders and Sonny squatted in front of her. She squirmed, looking at Eric. "Lisa." Sonny took her hand, caressed her knuckles with his thumb. "Hey, look at me."

Lisa? He never called her Lisa unless the news was bad. Very bad.

"You found him? Is he okay? How bad? Where is he? Has the doctor come out yet? Is our doc with him? He is, right? Can I see him?" She was babbling, she knew it, couldn't stop doing it. Yes, babbling was uncharacteristic of her but never in her life, had she been thrown so far and so wide off her game…..Sonny had called her Lisa.

Eric frowned. Him? He?

"Lisa, listen to me." Sonny said gently. "Hey, chin up girl, Brock's okay. Breathed in some smoke, he's doesn't feel to good, but he's okay."

"Why would you scare me like that? Not funny guys." She took several deep breaths. "He wasn't hurt? They didn't hurt him?"

"They didn't have to." Sonny squeezed her fingers. "Lisa, he wasn't…" He swallowed hard, tried again. "Davis."

Everyone jumped when a chair hit the wall. Lisa frowned, what would upset Jason so, he'd risk being arrested by arguing with a superior in front of top brass? Her jaw dropped, no, he was arguing _with_ the top brass!

Trent sighed. "Brock wasn't alone Davis," he said steadily. "The Marine unit from Quantico sent to find him," he paused, "brought Clay with them."

Silence. Lisa started to raise a hand, but it was shaking, so she sat on it. "No."

Sonny shot Trent a dirty look. "Don't sugarcoat it."

"Our Clay?" She looked around the room. "Clay's here in Syria? He was taken? When? How? Why?" That explained an out-of-control Jason. "Is he...is he okay?"

"They used Clay to force Brock to do what they wanted." Eric said. "He's with the doctors now."

Lisa sat for a moment, then pushed to her feet, stomped to the table, sat down. "Everyone. Sit. Down. Start talking. Then we're gonna find these Marines, 'cause we've got some ass to kick."

"They're going down." Sonny promised, that was his girl.

"How's Brock?" Lisa tapped her fingers on the table. "He can't be taking this well."

"He's trained." One of the men spoke up. "Not to buckle under to the threat of injury to a civilian or a fellow military member."

"Ain't easy to do." Jason said, he hadn't obeyed Lisa but McCall and the men with him had. He pivoted, stalked, turned. "You've never watched someone you know go through…..." he pushed his hands through his hair. "It's different when it's someone you know."

"It's fucking hard." Sonny added. "You CIA people only employ certain measures of torture…..these animals over here hate us for being American."

"And if we find out Brock cooperated?" Mandy asked.

"Tread real careful there, Ms. Ellis." Sonny said softly. "There are times I'd thrash that kid myself, many a time I want to smack his mouth and knock him on his ass, but this is Clay. It's personal."

Jason was pacing – back and forth, back and forth – short distances. "The hell Mandy? What would you have him do? It's one of us." His hands fisted, released, fisted. "Brock had to sit there, watch, while they…..."

Sonny got up. "Sure, Mr. Kidnapper, whatever you want, he's too pretty to hurt."

"Brock's going to need counseling." Ray said quietly. "He's going to take this hard, no way he can't."

"I'll hold his hand," Sonny growled.

"Could have been worse." Trent unintentionally quoted Ray's favorite expression. Everyone turned to stare at him, went silent. He put a hand up. "Don't go jumping all over me. Brock will get through this; the guilt, the second guessing, going with them willingly so Sonny saw the next dawn, I get it. I do." He paused. "And to sit there and see it, watch Clay, of all fucking people, go through it, hadda be hell." He shrugged, held his arms out. "But Clay was lucky."

"Your fucking wife has to go." Sonny flipped him off. "Stop listening to her."

"What?" Mandy asked.

"Clay can handle pain." Trent sighed. "Beating him, pulling his finger nails off, breaking his toes was nothing compared to what they could have done." He continued. "Torture Mandy, comes in many levels and methods. You know that. You've seen it, ordered it done. They could have taken ears, eyes, teeth. Burned him with rods, threw acid in his face, poured boiling water on hm, electrocuted him, shocked him. Cut his fingers off with wire. Shot, cut, stabbed, punctured him. Didn't gave to be lethal. Bruises fade, broken toes heal, but whips and lashes break skin, leave scars. Did you want him water-boarded? Choked? Suffocated? Smothered? Bones broken that would never heal right?"

"Enough." Lisa covered her ears. She wasn't normally wishy-washy and she knew all about torture techniques. American's weren't innocent of it either. But Clay and Brock, the rest of Bravo were _her_ guys.

"They have ways of torture we don't even know about." Ray added.

"Or want to think about." Eric said.

"Quickest way to break Brock and gain his cooperation was to hurt Clay." Ray nodded. "No one wants to know how far they would have gone to gain it either. We don't even know what they wanted from him."

"Even so, had to kill him to watch Clay go through it," Eric said. "No easy way back from this for either of them."

Trent nodded. "We done here?" He stood up.

Eric looked surprised. "You got somewhere to be?"

"No, something to do." Trent had a hand on the doorknob.

Eric slid a gaze Jason's direction. What had he and Trent discussed? And when?

"Eh," He cleared his throat. "We land at home, he's going to the hospital." He paused, nodded. "But you know that. Of course you do."

"Stella will fight you." Mandy said. "She'll want to take Clay home." Jason shot daggers at her.

Eric waved Trent out. "Go then. Wash up." He turned to Jason as Ray followed Trent from the room. Lisa went with them. After a moment, a quiet word with Eric, McCall and the other men left as well. "Is Katie going to be able to handle Brock on her own?"

"She won't have to." Sonny replied. "He's got us, I'll stay with them."

"Katie's strong, she'll be okay." Mandy looked at Jason. "Um, Jay, hey."

"No."

"Hear me out."

"No."

"Clay's going to want her."

"Don't care."

"She's going to want to take care of him."

"Not gonna happen."

"Jason, come on." Mandy tried but Jason was shaking his head. "He's going to need someone."

"She disobeyed me."

"But he didn't." Mandy said.

Jason's head came up, a look of disbelief on his face. "The fuck Mandy. Yeah, okay, last time he was with it enough to call Trent. What about now? His toes are broken. He'll struggle with crutches because of his arm. His right leg is swollen and bruised from his toes to his crotch. He's gonna be on pain meds for days, will need ice 24/7. What happens when she leaves him alone again and he isn't with it enough to call us?"

"She learned her lesson." Mandy argued. "She won't do that again."

"I don't believe it."

"Give her a chance to prove it." Mandy suggested.

"She should have answered her fucking phone when I called." Jason snarled.

Before she could respond, the door opened and the team doc entered. He waved them all into a seat, sat down at the table and selected a donut and a danish. The coffee had gone cold, the egg sandwiches soggy, so going-stale pastries it would be. Trent was on his heels, gave Jason a thumb's up, straddled a chair opposite the doc.

"Don't know what it is about this team." The doc sighed. "Brock will be out in a few minutes. He's insisting on see you all." He reached for a napkin. "Spot on again Trent. You sure do know that kid."

"Clay? What's the word on the kid?" Sonny asked.

"Here now, none of those looks. Kid's doped up on Fentanyl." The doc said. Trent scowled, muttered it had been a mild dosage, the doc waved him off with a huff. "Not a bad thing, he's sure touchy about his arm. He should be back from tests soon. Can't very well hold his hand while he's getting an MRI, now can I?" He reached for a second donut. "Young Spenser will recover from his injuries without permanent damage. The dislocated elbow was severe, but there was no injury to blood vessels or any nerves. He's damn lucky Brock was able to pop it back. Ice, bed rest and pain meds for the next several days. No hairline fractures in his leg, bone bruise will likely be confirmed by the MRI, kids gonna hurt for a while, but will heal without surgery."

"God-damn." Sonny breathed. "Even his toes? His nose?"

"Mmmmm-hmmmmm. Clean breaks. Some tape, a splint, a cast to help keep his weight off his toes and he doesn't bang them into anything. Crutches. We thought about a knee scooter, but he's not gonna wanna put his weight on that leg."

"Recovery time?" Eric asked.

"Eh, four to six weeks, I'd guess." The doc shrugged, peered at the pastry in his hand. "These are good."

"That's it?" Sonny spluttered. "A fucking month?"

"Maybe two." The doc grinned. "And that's because his two moms will insist he wait longer than he needs to, to return to work."

"He didn't look so good in the truck." Eric was doubtful. "Think maybe I'm with his two moms this time."

"He took a beating." The doc agreed. "Didn't say it was going to be easy. He'll have to push through, won't do it on his own. He live alone?"

"He doesn't, doesn't matter. He's not going home." Jason said. "What?"

Ray held the door opened, Lisa entered, pushing Brock in a wheelchair. He wore a hospital gown, had an IV in one arm, a blanket across his lap, but he wasn't on oxygen and had cleaned up. He smelled of disinfectant soap, his wet hair smelled of a chemical – right, treatment for lice. And Lisa was scolding him.

"You shouldn't be out here. Why aren't you in bed? They're keeping you, aren't they? Doc? They should. You need to stay. Eric, make him stay."

"Twenty minutes. He has a room, just can't keep him in it." The doc offered Brock a donut, who hesitated than took it. "Someone get him some water?"

Mandy nodded, left the room.

Jason knew Brock should be in bed getting some sleep, at least rest, but he knew Brock wouldn't want to be alone while they waited until they were able to see Clay. Course, had Brock asked, they all would have gone to his room, but, well, uh seven people, eight if you included the doc, all crowded around his bed would make him feel swarmed.

Brock knew it was coming, looked at Trent who nodded. There would be an official inquiry later, and that would be hard to get through without revealing details only Bravo needed to know. But these guys? They wouldn't settle for anything but every fucking detail. And he'd give it to them, but not now, they'd have to wait a while. He was too tired to do more than tell them what they had to know.

"Went out the back door, woman held a phone in my face, live feed of ak's on Sonny, I went with her. They had some kind of truck." Brock chewed slowly. God, he wanted a cheeseburger, a chocolate bar.

"We didn't hear one." Ray said. "No tracks."

Brock shrugged. "They wanted my help avoiding security, to get in and out of the warehouse."

"What were they after?" Eric asked.

"Nerve agent in a canister that would fit in my pocket," Brock took the opened bottle of water from Mandy. "Thanks."

Eric rubbed his forehead, tugged on an ear….he was developing a nervous habit. He had some calls to make.

"I refused, but they had Clay and…." He hunched a shoulder. "He wasn't with me at first. They brought him later, said the opportunity to take him was too good to pass up, but he didn't go with them without a fight. Jumped out of a moving truck. But….tranquilizer took him down."

"Did they know who he was?"

"No."

Brock accepted another donut. He was hungry, but more than anything, he wanted to sleep. He answered their questions best as he could, but he was getting tired and shifted uncomfortably. Sitting up and talking was taking a toll on his ability to breathe, and soon he was coughing.

"How did they get him?"

"He said four of them jumped him. He was, uh, alone. The Marine unit wasn't happy they had to take him with them."

"Okay, enough." Doc soon stood up, took the handles on the wheelchair. "Get you to your room so you can lay down. Any further questions can wait."

"Why is he coughing again?" Sonny asked.

"He's tired." The doc rolled his eyes. "Sitting up, talking, sure, sure, he's no longer breathing fetid air, but..."

"Fetid." Sonny repeated with a scowl. "Can't you just say foul like a normal person?" He shimmied the doc away from the wheelchair, took the handles. "I got him."

"Blackburn?" Brock let Lisa take the water bottle. "Anything?"

"The goon?" Brock nodded, Eric continued. "Big guy? Well over 6'6? Tattooed arm the size of a tree trunk?"

Brock nodded again.

"I'm happy to say, Sonny blew him up." Happy to say it because he didn't need the murder of anyone in cold blood on the hands or conscious – regardless of what he was responsible for doing – of anyone on Bravo.

"Who'd I blow up?" Sonny asked.

"The man responsible for Clay injuries."

()

Clay stirred, warm, comfortable, the floor beneath him wasn't damp dirt, he didn't smell like a sewer and he was no longer wearing dried-stiff dirty clothes. He knew this place, had been here before…..a hospital. He wanted to wake up, wanted to find the call button, wanted someone to tell him Brock was okay, was here somewhere in the hospital with him. But he didn't, because doing anything beyond a blink was beyond his current abilities.

Someone moved, he heard the creak of a chair, a shadow loomed over him, melted away, but he didn't feel threatened. It was all familiar...the hand on his forehead, his cheek, feeling the pulse in his neck, then his left hand, the quiet voice talking to someone that wasn't him.

He started to move, wanted to talk, needed to ask about Brock...but he drifted in and out, only vaguely aware of the voices and shadows. Whenever he tried to talk, he was shushed. Whenever he tried to move, even raise a hand, he was tsk-tsked. Ice chips were spooned into his mouth, a thermometer tickled his ear, a cold stethoscope pressed against his chest, a damp cloth dabbed his forehead and cheeks, his hand was squeezed a time or two and finally, consciousness was achieved.

"Hey."

His head rolled in the direction of the voice, eyes slow to respond to his request to open. Nothing wrong with his hearing though, he knew that husky hey.

"Yeah, the hospital." He was told. "Leave the damn IV alone." His fingers were slapped, hand caught, pushed to the mattress.

"Brock?" He licked his lips, winced. "Ow!" He squirmed, feeling the sting of salt on a busted lip. "OW!"

"Yeah, split lip, cut your tongue, bit your cheek, gonna sting for a couple days." Trent was leaning on the rails. "And yeah, you're foggy-headed. Some good pain meds, so don't fight it."

"Why'm I sweating?" He turned his face to wipe against the pillow. "Shit." He forgot about his discomfort, tried to sit up. "Brock?"

"Brock's okay, will be released in the morning." Trent assured him. "Sonny's with him."

"Me too?"

Trent snorted. "Not a fucking chance."

"I'm okay, right?"

"Dunno how, but yeah, you're good."

"Don't feel good."

"Called pain, you ass."

"I'm hot." Clay complained, wiping his palm on the sheet. "Sticky hot…..why'm I sweating?"

"Reaction to the pain medication they put you on. Hot flashes and sudden sweats. Welcome to menopause." Trent shook his head with a grin. Leave it to Clay to break out in a red flush and sweat profusely for no reason. Hadn't taken long for him and Doc to question what medication they'd given Clay and change it. "Doc changed it. We'll try anything once, you do great on morphine, okay with a mild dosage of fentanyl."

Whatever…..he didn't really care. His left arm was immobile, his right arm sported the IV but he could move it, just couldn't bend it the way he wanted to.

Perplexed, Trent watched him fidget. "What are you trying to do?" It dawned on him and he chuckled as Clay's frustration mounted.

"This sucks." He licked sweat from his lip. "My hair's wet."

"They gave you a bath."

"When?" He gave up, let the sweat drip into his eyes, off his nose, licked it off his lip, winced.

Trent had teased him long enough, wrung a cloth out, wiped the kids face, neck and chest. "That better?"

He was moving uneasily, casted foot on a pillow, bandaged arm in a sling, ice on his thigh and knee. Trent didn't want him moving about, pushed something on the IV tube and though Clay fought to keep his eyes open, they slowly lost focus and drifted closed.

"You sleep kid, time to talk going home later."

()

Brock held the cell phone Sonny had given him before stepping out to give him privacy to call Katie. He should, he wanted to, but he dozed off, send not thumbed.

Sonny returned, sighed, took the phone and set it aside. He was sure Katie had been notified when Brock had been officially reported missing, knew she would have been notified he'd been found alive. But she needed to hear from him. His family did - his parents, his siblings, his ex-wife and kids.

"Hey," Sonny smacked his shin, knew he wasn't asleep, just 'resting his eyes'. "Trent said Clay woke up, hurts, but he's okay."

Brock pushed at his hair, why wouldn't Sonny just go away? And stay away? He wanted to be alone to sulk and wallow and Sonny was preventing him from doing that.

"I'm not going anywhere." Sonny said. "Trent's babysitting the kid, Jason and Ray are hunting down a Marine unit, Blackburn is getting some answers, so if you're not going to talk to Katie, talk to me. Tomorrow is going to be hard, they're gonna allow Blackburn to be with you though. Now, tell me everything and together we can decide what you're not going to tell them."

Brock was quiet, Sonny was patient. Just sat in a chair and played a game on his phone.

"I couldn't believe they'd found another soldier to take hostage." Brock began finally. "Dragged him in and said, 'say hello to the reason you'll do what I want." He raised the bed, cradled his head with the crook of his elbow. "Left us alone in the dark."

"The room we found him in?" Sonny put the phone down.

"Yeah." Brock stared at the ceiling. "He wasn't conscious, I checked him over...smelled cedar...and he, uh, had a hold on my pants...then the hair, and I checked for dog tags, found three, felt for the scar on his belly, his thigh...and I knew."

Sonny winced, hell of a way to find out the teammate you left home in Virginia was the injured man tossed into a dirt-floor prison with you.

"He was in and out of it, they gave us some water, something to eat...he told me they'd given him a tranquilizer, he came out of it pretty hard, but not as bad as before."

Sonny poured him some water, sat back down. It was going to be a long night until, well, whenever. But Brock was talking and he wasn't holding back, that was a good thing. Sonny would repeat the story to the rest of the team, Brock wouldn't have to go through this again unless he wanted to.

***000***

Nothing much ever happened at JoJo's. It was a local bar favored by military personnel to frequent off base on down time. It offered good booze, decent burgers, entertainment, music, the opportunity to mingle. Oh, an argument might break out, but rarely a fight, never a brawl.

But those in attendance this night? Well...

Tonight the door opened and a woman strolled in. She didn't head for a table, didn't approach the bar, simply walked in and stood in the middle of the room.

"Sargent Willis?" She called. "Marine combat search and rescue unit?"

"Who the hell wants to know?" A man got off a stool at the bar, turned to face her, saw she was dressed in combat fatigues. "Who are you?"

"Logistics Specialist First Class Lisa Davis." Her hands went to her hips.

"That supposed to mean something, little lady?"

"Bravo Team, sub-unit of the United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group." She continued.

"Well now, just what can I do for you?" He leered.

"You can tell me why you sent Special Warfare Operator Clay Spenser out on patrol alone in a known hostile area." God, she had a problem with men who had this attitude. "While on a search and rescue mission for an American Soldier already gone missing."

His entire attitude and whole demeanor immediately changed. He turned away from Lisa, picked up his beer from the bar.

"I don't discuss missions with the likes of you."

"Likes of me? A woman? A female? Or because I'm Bravo?" She was definitely giving him attitude and he didn't like it one bit.

"You need to butt out of business that doesn't concern you."

"What about with the likes of me?" Eric appeared out of nowhere. "Anything you want to say to me?"

Willis eyed the pins and patches on Eric's jacket that identified his rank. "Lieutenant Commander." He acknowledged. "Do we have a problem here?"

"We do." Eric confirmed. "You're going to answer Ms. Davis's question."

"I've given my statement." Five men gathered, got up from a table, came over from a pinball machine, left the pool table. "Anything you care to say to me, can be taken up with Admiral Chariss."

"I've read your statement." Eric tilted his head. "I call bullshit."

"With all due respect sir, I don't answer to you." Willis motioned with his hand for his team to round up. "Good night, we're done here."

But when he turned, the front door was blocked by a man lounging against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest, chewing on a toothpick. Another had appeared at the door that led to the hallway for the restrooms. And somehow, someway, two more men were now right beside Eric.

"Oh, we're nowhere near done." Said the man to Eric's right. "And the only way you're leaving this bar, is head-first through that window."

Every head in the bar swiveled to look at the window.

"Is that so?

"Yeah, that's so." Jason replied.

"You know that, how?"

"Cause I'm gonna throw you through it."

Every head in the bar swiveled back to judge the size of the two men.

"Who the hell are you?"

The music cut out, lights came on, the game machines went silent.

"You can address me as Master Chief Hayes."

"What the hell did I ever do to you?" But he finally made the connection to the name.

Aaah, right. Leader of the Navy Seal Team Bravo. He'd heard that name thrown in his face for hours in debriefing. As if Willis and his men hadn't already been served a set-down and reprimand from Command from both the Marines and the Navy. He certainly didn't need shit from these assholes who had gone and upstaged him. Found the Seal they'd been sent to find as well as the one they'd lost.

"I don't have anything to say to you." Willis set the beer bottle on the bar. "You got a complaint, take it up through the proper authority ranks. If you got a personal beef with me, too fucking bad. Nothing you can do about it."

People started to get up, some left, some simply backed up against the wall.

"He's a kid." Ray spoke up calmly. "Rookie full of attitude who follows orders because he doesn't know any better."

"You had no right to send him anywhere alone." Eric said. "And you didn't tell us you lost him."

"I reported it to the proper command."

"Not forgivable." Ray added, ignoring the interruption.

"And don't give us crap about he didn't have to go." Lisa chimed in. "That he went on his own. He went because you ordered him to and that's not okay."

Willis did not like being addressed by a woman in such a manner. He decided it was time for him and his men to go. He stepped forward, but his way was blocked. He stepped left, was blocked, stepped right, was blocked.

"Step aside and get out my way." He was used to intimidating most men, was impressed despite his anger, that Jason didn't back down.

Jason stood his ground. "I said, we weren't done."

"I said we were." Willis stood toe-to-toe with Jason. He was bigger, heavier, more muscle, felt he could easily take Master Chief Hayes.

He was wrong.

A fist, a thud, a return punch, a duck and the first five on six all-out brawl at JoJo's erupted.

Chairs flew, bottles hit the floor, tables were upended, shit broke, liquid spilled. Pool balls rolled, some were thrown, cue sticks broke over heads, bodies hit the floor.

It took both Sonny and Jason, but the fight finally ended when Willis went head-first through the window. He lay sprawled amid broken shards of broken glass on the sidewalk, gazing blearily up at Jason who stood over him.

"You ever see me again, make sure I don't see you." Arm across his aching gut, Jason turned and walked away.

Eric would later report to McCall he hadn't seen who had thrown the first punch, though he damn well knew it had been Jason. With two black eyes and a swollen cheek bone, McCall took his word for it.

***END***


End file.
